Secrets Part III
by SophiePersan
Summary: Harry and Ruth's Secret and what we didn't see, continued. SPOILER ALERT: In Part III, although Harry is in Season 7, Ruth is living the life described in the beginning of Season 8. If you haven't yet seen Season 8, there are spoilers in these chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**"SECRETS - PART THREE"**

_**Again, warm hugs and huge thanks to my beta readers: Isa, Sarah and Donna. Thanks for your insight and encouragement.**_

**"**_**Spooks," its characters and scripts are the property of Kudos Film & Television and the BBC. No copyright infringement is intended by the author of this story**_**.**

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**CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO**

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"_Tha káno__ af__tá."_ Ruth pointed to the basket of very large strawberries on the cart, and felt the exhilaration that always overtook her when she was able to use a language in its natural environs. Hundreds of hours sitting in A levels, studying etymology, dialects, phonetics, construction, and now it all boiled down to "I'll take that one," for a particularly scrumptious-looking set of strawberries.

Ruth was fluent in Greek, ancient and modern, and since the people of Southern Cyprus spoke a combination of Greek and English, she had no trouble communicating. _Harry knew that_, Ruth thought with a hint of a smile. Cyprus was beautiful, warm and friendly. Harry had sent her to a place that offered no real hardships. Except, of course, that of missing him.

It had been exactly a week since she'd last touched his face and walked away into the Dover fog. As Ruth remembered the chill of that early morning, she stopped her progress through the open-air market for a moment. She moved off to the side to allow room for the locals who were single-mindedly doing their morning shopping, but that could be dangerous as well. The moment she slowed, she was fair game for the considerable sales techniques of the stall-keepers.

A large piece of fresh deep-sea tuna was thrust under her nose, and she came jarringly back to the present. She smiled broadly at the young man offering it, saying, "No, thank you," with a slight wave of her hand. Although the fish looked lovely, Ruth was still living in the room that Adam had booked for her, and she knew she couldn't do the meal justice in the tiny kitchenette the hotel provided.

Ruth bought a bag of whole shelled almonds, a container of yoghurt, and a small cup of aromatic Cypriot coffee, and walked away from the Central Square down toward the sea. The bounty of this place continued to amaze her. The natural sun and rain cycles caused everything to grow, and to grow very large. Ruth felt as if she had stepped into something Maurice Sendak might have drawn, full, leafy, and primitive.

Polis Chrysokhou, the town's official name, meant "City of the Golden Land," and Ruth thought the name couldn't be more apt. Polis was endlessly interesting to her. It was fertile, delightfully traditional, and its distinctive character blended as best it could with the increasing influx of tourists. Most of the streets were cobblestone or dirt, the dress infinitely casual, and the local people hospitable, kind and open.

Ruth was as happy as could be expected in her new exile. She was waiting for Harry, but while she waited, she was doing well. It was just now beginning to sink in how precarious her position had been before Adam showed up in that Parisian forest five days ago, and how terribly frightened she was. She supposed she had been in a sort of shock throughout her time being held by Yalta, and to a degree, her first days here. It was as if she had been coiled tightly, and was just now gradually unwinding, letting go.

Carrying her purchases from the market, Ruth found a spot on the sea wall, and perched herself on it. She opened the container of yoghurt and dropped some almonds in, and then reached into her purse for the knife and spoon she had borrowed from her room. She cut up three of the strawberries and mixed them into the yoghurt, licking their sweet juice from her fingers. The paper cup of strong Cypriot coffee sat cooling beside her.

As she ate her breakfast, Ruth gazed out at the far away horizon. She felt she would always find her greatest peace when facing toward England, as she was now. Harry was there, though it was two hours earlier. On a Tuesday at 6:00 a.m., Harry would just be waking up, getting ready for work, most likely shooing the girls from the bed, stepping into the shower, then getting dressed. Ruth closed her eyes, smiling wistfully, and imagined herself picking out a tie for him to wear.

How she missed him. He rattled around in her head everywhere she went, commenting, making her laugh as she walked past the fountain in Central Square with its stern lion faces meeting the four winds.

She could see him squinting up at the imposing tower of St. Nicholas' Church, the Agios Nikolaos. He would love its rounds of thick glass embedded in the stone walls, creating windows of sorts and allowing the light to come into the silent, ancient structure. And they would sit for a time in another church, the Apostolos Andreas, with its massive wooden panelled doors flanked by impressive mosaics of the saints, still brilliantly-hued after centuries.

And of course, Harry would have opinions about the amusing amalgam of the old and the contemporary in Polis, the parts they hadn't had time to see when they were here. Its traditional Greek restaurants with ancient women cooking in the old style, juxtaposed with the new and, for Polis, modern, Steak House. The Disco Club, transported directly from the 80's complete with mirror ball, sat across the rough stone street from the bright yellow awning of the Kamara Kiosk offering disposable underwater cameras.

Ruth could hear Harry, as if he were here. Last night she had even dreamt of him walking the old streets with her, and it was so real that she woke smiling. She fully expected him to roll over and say good morning. She wanted it, so much.

Ruth took a tentative sip of the hot coffee, and she felt a rise in her impatience to see Harry. Again, she suppressed it, but she wondered every day how and when Harry would contact her. Last week, just after Adam left, Faith Benson had opened an account at the Bank of Cyprus. She'd gone from there to the Post Office to organise a mailbox. She wanted to make it as easy as possible for Harry to find her, and since finding people had been one of Ruth's specialities on the Grid, she knew precisely how to make Faith just visible enough.

In the week she had been on Cyprus, her need for news of London had returned, but it wasn't like popping round to the newsagent in Paris to pick up one of the hundreds of copies of _The Times_. Polis had some British influence, to be sure, but _The Times_ arrived to the island late, and in scarce numbers. She knew she could always go to Paphos, ten miles south by highway, to the one fairly large Municipal Library in the area, but she hadn't made that trip yet.

The Polis Connect Internet Cafe in the centre of town had ten computers and a surprisingly good connection, but at this time of year it was packed with tourists, and in any case, it was very expensive. Her natural frugality simply wouldn't let her pay their exorbitant prices. Once she got her flat, she could arrange a connection and a laptop, but for now she felt somewhat limited. Ruth found herself going to the Internet Café at odd hours, during the hot afternoons or late at night, and for short periods, certainly not enough time to properly read _The Times_ online.

More than once she had thought of sending an email to Martin Wingate, but each time she'd remembered Adam's words: _This was an extremely close call, Ruth. The people who are looking for you are very, very dangerous. No contact, until someone contacts you._ Ruth felt safe on Cyprus, anonymous, almost invisible. The thought of venturing to England again, or even Paris, brought back all the fear she had felt in that cell. She knew a way to send an email safely, but it had only been a week, after all.

So, curbing her natural impatience, and holding her love and trust for Harry close to her heart, Ruth waited and learned the lay of the land. And she soon learned that any business she had to attend to would need to be done in the morning. The bank and the post office adhered to some extremely relaxed hours, open Monday through Friday until only 1:30 in the afternoon, except Wednesdays, when they re-opened after lunch from 3:00 to 5:30. The concept of the siesta was alive and well in Polis, and Ruth found it charming. She wondered how Harry would cope on a long-term basis with the relaxed nature of this place. She thought he might just warm to it, under her influence.

As she looked out at the sea, Ruth sighed, and closed her eyes. She didn't always know exactly what she wanted, although right now it felt clear to her that she wanted Harry to come here and stay. To live with her in the sunshine, to forget about painted targets and his responsibility for the safety of the world, to let someone else deal with whatever terror lurked around the next corner. To sit next to her on this wall and listen to the waves fall and then retreat from the soft white sand. To hear the sea birds and watch them swoop and dive over all of those magnificent colours of blue.

She had always tried to refrain from thoughts like these in connection to Harry, feeling his job was a part of who he was, and she had no right to take him from it. Not to mention the fact that Ruth had also dearly loved being a spy, on the Grid or off of it. But there had been a perceptible shift in the two of them, even before her abduction by Yalta. They had talked of being "normal" during those last few days together at Harry's house, and they had done it with an increasing longing. She didn't know whether Harry could give up MI5, but she wanted it to be a discussion they could have.

And as she watched the light play off of the blue waters, Ruth thought this was the perfect place to have that discussion. She would admit to him that although she'd been thrust into a sabbatical of sorts from the Grid after Cotterdam, she felt ready for it now, to have time with Harry without worry. In Paris, she had held out hope that she would be cleared and someday soon return to England. Now, there was not only that obstacle, but also the danger inherent in being linked by love to Harry Pearce, Head of MI5's Section D.

Ruth was exhausted with the whole business, really. Harry had talked of "pushing the river" and she felt as if she had expended enough energy to reroute the Thames. The last few days had seen an establishment of a sort of peace in her, a feeling of being calm and in sync with the magnificent nature that surrounded her on Cyprus. She didn't have to struggle to survive here, she flowed _with_ the river, or more appropriately, with the sea that surrounded this small island. She felt at home, somehow. All that was missing, and it was a gaping and very painful sense of missing, was Harry.

She wanted to talk to him, to have a proper conversation with him. To hear what he thought about anything and everything. There was so much to say about this fascinating place, and Ruth thought she had hardly spoken a hundred words since she'd been here, and then only of the necessities and amenities: _good morning, where can I find this?, how much is that?, thank you, yes, lovely day_.

She wanted to make love with him, to hold him, to feel his urgency again, his strong arms around her. To touch his skin, to kiss him, long lovely kisses, and to run her fingers through the curls at the back of his neck. To hear his wonderful, soft, low voice telling her that he loved her. To fall asleep with him, to feel the rhythm of his breathing and hear his murmured _good night, my Ruth_.

Ruth inhaled sharply, and opened her eyes to the sea again. She knew she had to hold back, to not want so much. She needed to hope less. He would come to her when he could, she knew that. She trusted Harry with her whole heart, and if he said he would come, he would. She needed to be patient.

And in order to be patient, Ruth knew she had to focus on something else. She needed to get a job. She was so grateful to Harry for the money from her house, because it meant she didn't have to take the first thing that came along, but she knew it was time to start a serious look at what was available. If she had something to occupy her time and her mind, she would spend less time thinking about him.

She had looked at the classified adverts, and the one place in town that seemed to be hiring was the Chrysochous Hospital and Rural Health Centre. She had seen the imposing curved white building up on the hill, overlooking the town. She thought of Malcolm's certificate, and Ruth intended to apply there for something clerical once she got settled into a flat and had established a routine.

And, she thought with a slight thrill, she had all but decided she would purchase the red Vespa scooter she had seen advertised. It was practically new, and at only 575 Euros, she could hardly afford to pass it up. It would suit the narrow roads, and present no difficulty with parking. She had called the current owner about it and told them that as soon as she had her flat, she would commit to buying it. Ruth had to admit that she had already imagined what fun it would be to traverse the rural roads with Harry, each of them on a scooter. She wasn't sure she'd be able to get him on one, but the picture of him on a Vespa brought her a smile every time she thought of it.

As she packed up her breakfast, Ruth noticed again how bare her finger looked without Harry's ring. When she had first arrived, she'd finally had the energy to go completely through the carry-all Adam had packed for her. She'd searched every pocket for her ring and her necklace, but neither were there. She'd asked Adam about them, but he had packed so quickly for her, he couldn't remember seeing them.

So Ruth had torn the name off the top of the hotel stationery, and had written a quick, nondescript note. She'd tucked it into Adam's coat pocket as he left, knowing that he would say no if she asked him to take it to Harry. Adam would find it later, he would give Harry the note, and Harry would do as she asked. She was sure of it.

Another thing that wasn't in the carry-all was a bathing suit, but at this time of year, they were hanging in nearly every shop window beckoning tourists. Some of them were so small they didn't look to be made for actual swimming, but she'd managed to find an out-of-the-way shop that seemed more geared toward the locals, and bought a real bathing suit, a one-piece that would survive the laps she hoped to swim just beyond the waves.

Ruth took the last sip of her coffee and bundled her things together, walking down toward the water. Her new bathing suit was under the light cotton skirt and top she wore. At a little after eight in the morning it was already nearly 80 degrees. The water would be chillier than the air, to be sure, but her swim would warm her up quickly. She was alone on the beach, and as she undressed, she turned to see the town, already bustling.

Then she turned again toward England, and Harry. As she walked into the water, she knew that here in the sea, she was the closest to him that she would be today. Ruth smiled, looking out at the horizon, and said softly, "Good morning, Harry. I love you. Come soon."

She dipped her head under the water, tasting the refreshing saltiness, and began her swim.

* * *

That morning, Harry wasn't getting ready to go to the Grid. He dressed casually, just an open blue shirt and jacket with his jeans. Very early, he drove to Dover and boarded the Ferry. At the very moment Ruth stepped into the Mediterranean Sea, Harry was putting the key into the door of her Paris flat. Three thousand kilometres apart, he was moving toward her, and she was moving toward him.

He had gotten her note, although at first he'd told Adam to take it away. Finally, sadly, Adam had simply placed the folded paper on Harry's desk, saying, "What could it hurt, Harry? She's safe. This can't hurt her. Read it." And then Adam was gone, closing the door behind him.

Harry was left staring at the piece of paper on his desk, the paper she had touched, written on, folded. It contained her thoughts, it was a part of her, and he simply couldn't stop himself. He opened it, holding it gently, and saw her handwriting, precious, hurried, and so very Ruth.

_My dear love,_

_I miss you already, but I don't have time to say how much. I need to tell you that I've left two invaluable things behind – my ring and my necklace. They're in a dish on the bathroom counter, and I hope you can bring them to me. Oh, wait, I've left a third invaluable thing behind – you. Could you bring that as well? And soon. Please soon. I can only survive for so long without those three very dearly loved things. Please keep all of them safe for me until we're together again._

_Your mule_

Harry read the note over, and then again. He knew he should destroy it, but he tried to imagine someone reading it, and what they might find that would be of use to them. Nothing. It was harmless.

_Oh, no, not harmless. _How was he expected to endure this? He read it again, and once more, and then opened his top right drawer and put her, because he couldn't help thinking of her note as _being_ her, next to the chocolate buttons. He sat back in his chair, letting the sharp ache subside a bit. The worst part was that he knew the depth of his love was the only thing keeping him from her. If he loved her less, perhaps he could convince himself to go to Cyprus. Ruth might not see it that way, nor could he blame her.

It felt cruel to let her continue to believe, but in the logical part of his mind, the one that was separate from his deeply pained heart, Harry knew it would help her in the long run. She would find a life while she waited, and when she finally realised he wasn't coming, she would turn and embrace that life, and be more grateful for it.

Harry had to hope that her natural adaptability would allow her to find happiness. He pulled the note out of his drawer and read it again. He despaired that the love that fairly flew off the page would disappear, and that made it even more precious now. It still existed in her heart, today, and he wondered sadly how strong it would be, and how long it would last, until she finally gave up on him.

But as he read the note still one more time, Harry knew he couldn't leave the ring and the necklace to strangers. That was beyond his power to resist.

So he had boarded the Ferry in the dark, peered through the fog again, and then walked through the door of Ruth's flat. It hadn't been touched since MI6 closed the investigation, and Harry would let the flat go at the end of the month. He walked back to the bathroom immediately and found them, the necklace and the ring, just where she said she'd left them.

Harry walked out to the bedroom and looked around him. It felt slightly intrusive, secret, to be here without her, knowing that she would never come back. But he couldn't leave her things here to be tossed out like rubbish_. I already have a garage hired, holding the contents of her house until she returns to London…_ Harry stopped the thought before he finished it, and sat wearily on the side of the bed, _… but she's not coming back._

And all he could think was, _How could that be?_ He held the necklace gently, and slipped the ring on his small finger, just to the knuckle, of course, because it was made for her finger, her delicate, finely boned finger. Harry took hold of the small charms on the necklace and brought them up near his eyes. The H and the R, so small, perfectly matched the ones on the ring. _She was the only one who could ever wear them, and now she never would again. How could it be that his Ruth would never come back?_

Harry suddenly felt so tired, unable to cope. He turned and laid on the bed, pulling her pillow to him and holding it as if it were her. He could still find a trace of the scent of lavender there, on the underside. He closed his eyes, and she was there. Sweet torture. For a time, he lay on the bed, on her bed, wondering what could possibly be so important that it kept him from her. None of it seemed to matter now. And then, the realisation that the last time she had been here was just before they had taken her. And he remembered again why he had to leave Ruth to her new life.

Harry sat up and looked out of the window. In his line of vision was the small card. _Je t'aime_. He picked it up and held it with the ring and the necklace.

Harry walked out to the lounge table and, on top of the large blue book he had sent her for her birthday, he began the pile of things he would take with him. Precious things. Her things. Harry walked back into the bedroom, and began the process of collecting from her armoire and her closet. When he was finished, he had filled the boxes he had brought with him. Then when he was satisfied that he'd gotten everything, he took the boxes down to the boot of his car.

Harry stood in the doorway and had one last look. It was as if she had died, really. Her presence was no longer here. Now this was just a flat in Paris where a woman named Sophie Persan had lived for a time.

* * *

Isabelle was working with a customer when the bell rang and Harry walked into the shop. She looked up and nodded to him, "_Un moment, s'il vous plait?_" she said, and Harry nodded back. How long had it been since he'd seen her? She'd been younger then, and so had he. Her long grey hair told him the years had passed, but he could still see something that was uniquely Isabelle in her eyes.

"Take your time," he said, and she gave him another quick glance, recognising his voice. She tilted her head and he saw her narrow her eyes slightly at him. "James?" she said, her eyebrows raised. He nodded and smiled at her. She put her hand on the other customer's arm and murmured something, and then walked toward Harry.

"Oh, my," was all she managed to say before folding him into her arms in a warm hug. Harry was a bit taken aback, but laughed and returned her hug, saying, "Hello, Isabelle."

And then she did something he didn't quite expect. She held him by the shoulders at arm's length and she looked deeply into his eyes. It was extraordinary, Harry thought, how she communicated exactly what she was feeling, and the empathy he felt from her nearly brought on the emotion that had been threatening him all through his time at Ruth's flat.

She was telling him she was sorry, that she loved Sophie too, and how much she wanted them to have happiness. He thought he almost heard it, it was so clear. But all she said was, "How good it is to see you again," and then, "Is she well? I have been so worried." This last bit she almost whispered to him, so as not to be heard by the customer, who was still searching through the shelves.

"Yes. That's why I came. I wanted you to know she's safe." Harry felt suddenly self-conscious. Isabelle was not a stranger, certainly, but she felt like a new person in his life. As he looked at her, he was very aware that Ruth had shared something of what she and Harry were to each other. He felt somewhat exposed, and a light flush came to his cheeks, which then made him even more self-conscious. Isabelle saw it, and smiled.

"She only told me after I guessed it." She took his arm, moving further away from the other man in the shop. Smiling at him, Isabelle said, "It was so obvious. How could it be a secret?"

Harry looked down at the floor and composed himself. "You know about secrets, Isabelle." Then he brightened a bit, and looked around approvingly at the bookshop. "You have a new life. You may have moved on," he said, touching a nearby book, "but I'm still in same profession."

She leant close to him, and said, "Stay here. I will close the shop for a while and we will have some tea. Do you have time?"

Harry nodded. "I'd like that." He looked slightly apologetic, and said, "But do you mind if we go somewhere else to talk? A café? Or if not, perhaps a bench in the square?"

Isabelle laughed softly, "Ah, yes, of course. Somewhere a little more … erm … public?" She whispered to him conspiratorially, "The walls may have ears, no? Yes, James. You may buy me a cup of tea, then."

He was grateful that she understood so quickly. "Thank you." As Isabelle helped her customer, Harry gravitated toward the travel section, and his eye was immediately attracted to a photo book of the Greek islands. He opened the book and found Cyprus. His heart clenched. _She is there, by the blue sea. It should be a colour all of its own. Cyprus blue. That will be my next choice for our game, my love, and now it's your turn_.

Isabelle rang up the man's purchase, and as he walked out the door, she got her coat and her keys. "Come, _James_." Harry saw the twinkle in her eyes, and she so clearly let him know that she knew it was not his name. She took his arm. "Someday, I will get it out of you two."

Harry felt good here with her, and he realised it was because she still saw him with Ruth. The world hadn't turned so far yet that Isabelle knew it was over, irrevocably, irretrievably over. Her heart hadn't been broken by the unfairness of it, her eyes still saw the lightness, the deep love of them as a couple. Harry sank into the feeling, and thought, as they walked out the door, that he wouldn't tell her that he and Ruth would never be together again.

He would let her know that Sophie was safe, and he would thank her for her kindness, but he would let her continue to believe that their future together was still as bright as she thought it was. He knew he was being a coward, and that he was doing it so that he could hide in Isabelle's belief for a little longer. But Harry had underestimated Isabelle's intuition.

"What has happened?" They sat in a quiet corner of Café Hugo, and Isabelle picked up her cup of tea to take a sip. She looked at him with an intensity that Harry thought he could use in the interrogation room. "You are very, very sad, and it has to do with Sophie?"

Harry exhaled, and gave her a wry smile. "I suppose it's you who expanded Sophie's psychic abilities?"

Isabelle laughed softly. "Oh, my dear, this takes no ability. It is all over your face, but especially, the eyes." She shook her head, "You two. Always apart, always loving." She looked across at him. "And so much love." Her eyes began to glisten slightly. "She loves you so dearly. So deeply. I saw it every day. And I see it now with you. The same."

Harry was unable to speak for a moment, and he fell back on his usual response when he was a loss for words. He simply looked at Isabelle, his face passive. He felt an urge to be honest with her, to feel her empathy, to tell her how hard it was for him. But Harry didn't do that because it might put Ruth in more danger. He stayed silent.

Isabelle pursed her lips. "Still you cannot say. I understand. I always told Sophie I wanted her to stay safe, not to tell me if it was not safe." She looked down at her tea. "What can I do, James? Anything? Can I help?"

Harry was feeling drained. He simply said, "No. There's nothing to be done." He sipped his tea to buy some time, to collect himself. "I really wanted simply to say thank you for your kindness to Sophie. It meant a great deal to her, Isabelle. And to me. You were a good friend."

Isabelle raised her eyebrows. "I _was_ a good friend. Am I not still?" She smiled at him, her tone light.

Harry was having trouble meeting her eyes. They saw so much, and he felt it. He found himself becoming more formal, to overcome his discomfort. "If Sophie should contact you, Isabelle, you must not allow it."

"How am I to not allow it? She is free to do as she pleases, yes?" There was a shift in Isabelle, to the protective mother bear, and Harry found her suddenly formidable.

"I mean, you can't allow her to … you mustn't … " Harry rubbed his forehead, and stopped. _What am I doing? This is a good woman, who was good to Ruth_. He looked up and into Isabelle's eyes. "She's far away, for her own safety. Far from you, far from me, and she's alone. She'll want to reach out, but I'm so afraid for her, Isabelle … so worried."

His eyes looked haunted, and Isabelle reached out to touch his hand. Harry continued. "I'm just saying that if she makes contact with you, she may be found by the people who came to your shop looking for her. Your shop may already have a bug, Isabelle. I'm sorry for that, but it's true. If you talk to her on the telephone, if she should send you an email, you mustn't let anyone know."

Isabelle held his gaze. "I will not ask questions. I will not fight you, James. I know you love her. I love her as well."

She was still touching his hand across the table. For moment, she was silent, and then she spoke softly, smiling at an inward thought, "She never would tell me what your names are. I saw her ring, however, and it has been such a wonderful puzzle ever since. Helen and Ralph? Rose and Harvey?" She saw Harry smile, which was her intention.

Isabelle finally nodded. "I will do as you ask, but you must make me a promise in return." Harry looked up from the table, but didn't give her any assent.

She continued, "I can see that you think all hope is lost, my friend. But I don't see that. I see you together. So when this time is over, this time that you think will last forever, and you are back in each other's arms? You will come see me, and you will tell me your names."

She pulled her hand away and sipped again at her tea, looking inscrutably at him. Harry was getting a bit of his own medicine, and he had to admit she had him a bit flustered.

Then Harry smiled at her. "Isabelle, if that happens, it's a promise." He put out his hand, and Isabelle shook it gently. After a long pause, she smiled sweetly at him. "This job you have seems very difficult. Have you ever considered another line of work?"

Harry laughed, genuinely. "Every day, Isabelle. Every bloody day."

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE**

* * *

Ruth made a decision. It had been over three weeks since she'd arrived in Polis, and there had still been no word from Harry. She knew she wasn't supposed to make contact, but she was worried about him and she couldn't keep herself from it. Twenty-five days was too long for her to be expected to have patience. She was concerned about whether Harry was safe, but also about his state of mind. It was well into June, and he should have been here by now. Ruth had decided that she would write to Malcolm.

But she would take precautions. She would go through the back end of the _l'Alcove_ website to send an email to Martin Wingate. It would seem as if it were coming from the Paris IP address, so there would be no connection to Cyprus. And she would do it from Paphos instead of Polis. Buses ran daily between the two towns, but Ruth was anxious to try out her new scooter. So she filled her backpack with provisions for the day and began her journey down the Polis-Paphos highway.

Thank God they drove on the left side of the road on Cyprus, because if Ruth were managing the erratic drivers on the highway _and_ having to organise which side of the road she was on, she might have found herself in the ditch. As it was, she was muttering into her helmet, which she was frankly very grateful she'd purchased, about how such a sleepy little area could have such sodding fast drivers.

Nearly halfway through the thirty mile trip, Ruth was wishing she had taken the bus after all, but by this time, she was on a mission. The blessing was that for the hour-and-a-half she was on the highway, she had little energy left over to worry about Harry.

If it was possible, she loved him more than when she had last seen him. Her first week had been filled with creating a place for herself and finding her way. The second week she found her flat, a third-storey walk-up with a terrace that had a view of the barest sliver of blue Mediterranean. It was only temporary in her mind, but it would do, and of course the rest of that sentence was, _until Harry gets here_. During the third week, Ruth had repeatedly admonished herself to be patient, and had repeatedly found herself backsliding.

And over the last few days she'd felt an escalation of nagging doubt, a sense that something wasn't right, either with Harry, or with her. Adam's words at the safe house came back to her, as well as her own reaction. "_And if he has some idea that letting me go is a great, noble sacrifice..." _Ruth knew Harry so well that she could sometimes think as he did, and this theory was beginning to hold some weight in her mind. If Harry thought he had put her in danger, he might think that the best way to love her was to take the target far away from her. To take his love away.

That thought ran a chill through Ruth. She was so alone on this little island, so far from him, unable even to state her own case. Of course he would think that was a solution. _Self-denial, self-control, Ruth. You think I'm a limited man? You think I don't understand the emotional side?_ She had accessed his emotional side, found the real man inside, but she was too far away now to remind him. Might he forget how important it was to feel?

She meant to remind him. A letter to Malcolm, and he would remember. And then he would put aside this foolishness of protecting her, and he would come to Cyprus. It was the only answer that made any sense. She had managed to charm the newsagent in Polis, who now set aside the first copy of _The Times_ for her each day. If anything was going on, it was deep under cover, because the news told of a peaceful June in England. Domestic tranquillity. A holiday of sorts for the Grid.

Finally turning off of the highway, Ruth geared down on the Vespa and arrived at her destination, grateful to get there in one piece. What she saw was very different from Polis. Paphos was once a tiny fishing village that had now been transformed by tourism into a bustling resort town with two McDonald's, a Pizza Hut and a sparkling nightlife.

The Paphos Municipal Library was a whitewashed one-storey building, not much more spacious than a large house in the London suburbs, with four Greek columns announcing its entrance. Ruth pulled up to the front and got off the Vespa, feeling a bit shaky, but proud of herself for braving the trip.

She found the computer stations and pulled out the notes she'd made, knowing that she needed to access the website by memory. She felt the same exhilaration she'd felt at the beginning of her correspondence with Harry. Her longing for him, for his words, had intensified over the last twenty-five days, and she found her heart was pounding in anticipation of making contact with him through Malcolm.

"_Eínai af__tó pou chri__simopoieítai?"_ Startled, Ruth looked up at a very tall, very Cypriot-looking man. He appeared to be around forty, handsome in a chiseled sort of way, and he was smiling at her. She saw that she had spread out a bit into the next computer station, and she smiled back at him apologetically. Before she thought, she spoke in English, "Oh, sorry." Then, quickly, in Greek, _"Den, den lamvánontai."_ _No, not taken._ Ruth began to collect her things, clearing the way for him to sit down.

As he did, his smile grew larger. "You're British?" His Greek accent was evident, but Ruth guessed he had been educated in a British school.

"Y-yes," she stammered. She hadn't encountered many people yet who might have a knowledge of England, and she was regretting that she hadn't done much work on her legend.

"Where in Britain, if I may ask?"

"Erm, yes," her mind was racing wildly, "From Bath."

"Ah, Jane Austen country. Beautiful place, isn't it?"

"Yes." Ruth turned back to her computer screen, hoping her one-word answers would give him the hint that she wasn't in the mood to chat. Unfortunately, it was not the case.

"I haven't been back in years. I studied in London, did my internship there. I'm a doctor, paediatrics." He put his hand out in a friendly, open way. "George Constantinou."

Unable to be rude in the face of his easy manner, Ruth took his hand and shook it. "Faith Benson."

His smile went even wider, and he chuckled, "So your mother was an Elizabeth Gaskell fan, then?"

She turned quickly, not knowing what to say. _Answer a question with a question, it buys time._ "Pardon?"

"_Ruth_?"

She felt suddenly panicked. Her eyes went wide and her mouth was dry in a split second. "Sorry?"

He looked slightly confused at her reaction. "The novel, _Ruth_. The Elizabeth Gaskell novel. There's a character named Faith Benson in it. It was one of my mother's favourites."

Ruth took a deep breath, and said, with a nervous smile, "Yes, yes, of course, _Ruth_. Yes, of course I've read it. My mum was a big fan as well. Liked the name quite a lot."

He shook his head a bit, and frowned. "I think I've frightened you. I'm sorry. You went white when I said '_Ruth_.'"

She exhaled, thinking she had to salvage this somehow. "It's my middle name. Ruth. I was just surprised you said it, that's all. No, I'm fine, thanks. Just surprised." Ruth felt she was stammering, and wanted to move the discussion off of herself. "Yes, lovely novel, but not very popular. I'm a bit stunned you've heard of it."

George shrugged. "As I said, one of my mother's favourites. That Henry was a scoundrel, though, abandoning Ruth that way in her hour of need. Didn't like him much. But I liked Thurston Benson, and his sister Faith." He smiled at her again. A nice smile, but Ruth couldn't help wishing he would go away. She had a letter to write and she wanted to get to it without interruptions and prying eyes.

She said, not impolitely, "Well, it's nice to meet you." She turned back toward the computer, "Erm ... I'd better ... "

"Yes, of course. I've distracted you. I'm sorry. " George had found what he needed on the computer, and stood to go to the medical journals. "Nice to meet you as well, Faith Ruth, from Bath." He gave her another brilliantly white-toothed smile as he walked away.

Ruth smiled too, but she was very glad he was gone. That was a bit too close, and she hadn't been prepared to be Faith Benson in this little library in Paphos. He seemed a nice enough sort, but the last thing she needed was a British-schooled Cypriot asking questions about her life.

Ruth opened the internet browser and began the process of entering the _l'Alcove_ website through the back door she had built into it. Simple, really, and a trick that Malcolm had taught her. She finished her letter and sent it, and then packed up her things. She looked at her watch, and realised that the combination of her time here and on the road had now put her at 5:30 p.m. She should have started earlier from Polis, perhaps given up her swim today. She retrieved her receipt for a much more reasonable fee than Polis Connect, and walked out into what she could only classify as a torrential downpour.

"Cripes!" The Vespa was soaked, and she was rapidly joining it. Well, she thought, all this greenery doesn't come from nothing, but how was she to get home? The roads were treacherous enough without dealing with rain, and how would she even see through the plastic guard on her helmet? Ruth ducked back under the cover of the Library entrance and weighed her options.

She was still at a loss when she heard a voice behind her. "Need a lift somewhere?" She turned, and George Constantinou stood behind her. Actually, behind and up. He was very tall. Even taller than he had looked sitting next to her.

"Oh, no, thanks, I'll sort it out. Maybe the bus?" She looked at him, moving her now wet hair out of her eyes.

"Where are you going, Faith Ruth?" He smiled as he said it. He clearly liked the sound of her names, because it made him chuckle again.

Ruth sighed. "Polis, I'm afraid."

"It's where I'm going. And I have a truck with a ramp to load your scooter." To her confused stare he said, "Country folk. We use all-terrain vehicles to check on the vineyards."

"Ah." Ruth was trying to take it all in. This was a very kind man, and he was offering to help her, but she had been less than a month in this new land, and she felt compelled to be suspicious. On the other hand, her logic was telling her that an hour-and-a-half on a scooter in the pouring rain was not a brilliant plan. She could book a hotel room in Paphos for the night, but who could say whether it would still be raining tomorrow?

George read her features well. "Yes, of course, you've been taught not to get in a car with a total stranger. That's good. I need to prove myself to you, and well I should." He reached into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out a business card. _George Constantinou. Doctor of Paediatric Medicine. Polis Chrysochous Hospital & Rural Health Centre._

Ruth stared at it, and then looked up at him. He pulled out his driving license and showed her the name and the photo. "See? That's me. Fine upstanding citizen. Not likely to harm you, as I've taken a Hippocratic oath." Just to prove his point, George put his hand up as if he were swearing in on a witness stand and said, sternly. "Do no harm."

Ruth laughed, and the moment was broken. She shook her head. "Sorry, suspicious foreigner," she said, looking abashed. "I forget sometimes what a nice place this is, and that there are very nice people in it." She looked back out at the rain. "You sure you don't mind? It's not out of your way?"

"I live in Polis. I'm going home." George looked at her and took a pause, wondering if he should say what he was feeling. In the end, he did. "Maybe you can pay me back by having a cup of coffee with me sometime."

Ruth said quickly, perhaps too quickly, "I'm married." She immediately blushed, but thank God, it was lost in the flush of the rain still on her cheeks. "Sorry, I shouldn't have assumed it was a … a _romantic_ cup of coffee, but I just wanted you to know."

He did look disappointed, but he covered it well. "Ah, yes, well, all the best women are married, aren't they? He's a lucky man. I didn't see a ring, I assumed ... "

Ruth interrupted him. "I-I left it somewhere ... he's bringing it to me. He'll be here soon." She was babbling now, and just wanted to get going. "I would appreciate a ride, George. I'm feeling a bit damp, actually."

"Yes, of course. Not very polite of me to keep you standing here. I'll just bring the truck round."

The Vespa was quickly loaded, and before Ruth knew it, she was back on the Polis-Paphos Highway, but this time in a very warm, dry and comfortable truck. George was being very kind to her, and she felt a need to make some sort of conversation.

"So, you're a doctor? At the Polis Hospital? I have an interview there at end of the week."

He looked at her, pleasantly surprised. "Really? For what position?"

Ruth shrugged. "Anything clerical. I have some office skills, and I can usually figure out what I don't know."

He laughed. "We need that. Desperately. Our offices are filled with very nice, very old ladies who think that technology is the tool of the devil." He glanced at her. "You obviously know computers, which will probably get you the job, to be honest."

"That's good. I like to work. I could use some diversion." Ruth said it casually, but was sorry as soon as it left her mouth.

"Ah, yes, waiting for your husband." George looked at Ruth, but she was silent, her eyes still forward. He looked back at the road, and smiled. "You are slightly mysterious, Faith Ruth Benson, but I don't often get the chance to make new friends, so I won't ask you any more questions. We will talk about the weather." He looked up at the lowering sky, pelting them with rain.

Ruth laughed, and said, "Well, that's a subject with infinite possibilities." She looked over at him, now, "And thanks. For no questions."

The rest of the drive was pleasant, with ordinary conversation and no difficult questions. She would have to be cautious about what she said due to his connection to Britain, but Ruth thought George was a nice man, a new English-speaking friend.

George felt quite differently, however, and thought he would bide his time and see how this whole husband idea played out. There was something wrong with a beautiful, intelligent and delightfully mysterious woman being left alone on an island. George Constantinou thought if Faith Ruth Benson were his, he would never leave her alone anywhere.

* * *

Malcolm had that look. He was standing in Harry's doorway with a piece of paper in his hand, held behind his back. Malcolm may have thought he was hiding it, but it was patently obvious to Harry, who gave him a slightly exasperated look and motioned him in.

"What are you afraid to tell me?" Harry asked, leaning back in his chair.

Malcolm sat by the windows, his eyes darting a bit. "I … well, you told me not to, but I can't help it." He stood suddenly and walked to Harry's desk. He laid the paper right in the middle, and walked to the door. "Just read it, and tell me what you want to say back. I can't do this all by myself, you know. It's too hard, Harry." And he was gone.

It was an email, addressed to Martin Wingate. The pain began again in Harry's heart. He'd managed to make it subside for nearly a quarter of an hour while he immersed himself in some routine surveillance reports. Just when he needed some good old-fashioned terrorism, everything had stopped. There was nothing to keep him from thinking of her. And now this.

He took a deep breath and leant forward to read the letter.

_Dear Mr. Wingate,_

_I know I've been told to be patient, and I have tried, but I find I'm very anxious to receive the book that was promised to me. I'm having a disturbing feeling that it may not be on its way after all._

_My first thought is that something has happened to it, that it has been harmed somehow, and I hope you will write directly to tell me if that's the case._

_My second thought is that perhaps it's felt that I will be better off without receiving it. I hope that's a decision that I'm allowed to make, and not one that has been made for me, out of some sense of nobility or sacrifice._

_I'm well and coping, but I do want and need that book so very much. I find it's difficult to function without it. I long for what it has to say to me, and to feel it under my fingers. I strongly encourage you to send it on, no matter what your worry might be of the ultimate consequences of my having it here with me._

_At the very least, I beg you to open a correspondence so that we can discuss what's best. Please let me be a part of the choice. I think you'll agree I have a right to it, that I've earned it._

_I love that book, Mr. Wingate, very, very much. Please do what you can to get it here to me._

_Sincerely,_

_A devoted reader_

Harry held the paper to his chest for a moment. So sweet, so formal. His Ruth, such a good spook. He thought he might love her more in this moment than he ever had. She was brave, and strong, and along with the intensity of the love he felt came admiration, honour, a sense of pride that this woman could love him. And between the lines were her tears, her sadness, her loss. What would he feel if he'd sent such a letter? What would the feelings be in his heart if their roles were reversed?

And now Harry knew that Ruth so shared his heart, that she knew exactly what he was doing. She was reaching out, saying, _Don't do this for me. Come to me. I'll take my chances. Let me decide_. It was such a reasonable request, and one with which he wanted so much to comply.

On the night Harry had sat here at his desk agonising over Ruth and wondering where she was, if she was safe, if she was even alive, he had written himself a note. He'd put the small piece of paper under his mouse pad where he knew he could always find it. He'd written the words in such a state of agitation, his hands shaking, that it was almost unreadable. He didn't want to forget how it felt, how unbearable those hours were for him. He never wanted to feel that way again.

He pulled the note out now. It said simply, _"NO. If you love her. NO."_ It was for just this moment that he had written it. He looked at it for a very long time. He closed his eyes and remembered his promise. Then he inhaled deeply, and pushed down the emotion that was choking him. He put the note back in case he should need to be reminded again. Then he wrote a reply to Ruth on a notepad, and walked it down to Malcolm's office.

"Please send this. I won't change my mind, so don't ask."

Harry turned on his heel and walked back to his office. His door was closed for the rest of the day. No one had reason to disturb him, and in truth, no one wanted to, as there seemed to be a storm brewing in Harry Pearce's office. The deep red that shone behind him was completely appropriate, and someone on the Grid outside his windows might even think they could see clouds forming. His head was down, reading, until exactly five o'clock. Then he put on his coat and went silently through the pods, and home.

* * *

Ruth had printed out the letter, because she couldn't very well sit in the library and cry her eyes out, now could she? She'd read the first line and clicked "print," her heart pounding, her tears so near that she thought she would burst.

She gathered up her things quickly, retrieved the page from the printer, and went out to the welcome cover of her helmet. Within minutes, she was on the road again. She stopped at a small, deserted park on the side of the highway, and pulled out the letter to read it completely.

_Dear Devoted Reader,_

_I'm so very sorry to tell you this, but that book is no longer available. I'm told to encourage you to find another to take its place, and that this will be for the best. _

_It's been said to me that this is a case of "pushing the river," that it has become clear that you're not meant to have that particular volume._

_It's also asked that you not write again to request it, as this lack of availability will not change. We hope you can find what you need elsewhere._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Martin Wingate_

So Harry had decided. Finally. Completely. And he'd decided without her.

Harry bloody Pearce, man of stone. Ruth sat on the scooter in the middle of nowhere on an island in the middle of the Mediterranean sea, and she wept. Big, full tears, enough to fill an ocean_. God save me from chivalrous men_, she shouted to the heavens, _Save me from this man who has decided what's best for me_.

She knew how much he loved her. How many times had he told her? From the depth and the breadth of his being, he loved her. She would never doubt that. And she knew that this misguided act came from that love. He was in agony, she was sure of it. She would be, if she were in his shoes. And perhaps she would be as sure as he was that it was the right thing to do. Two absurdly stubborn people. How were they ever to find each other in midst of all that stubbornness?

Ruth cried every tear she'd stored up over the last month. She shouted, she screamed, she sobbed. She resolved to take herself back to Paphos to the airport, board a plane to England, and march herself to the Grid to tell him what she thought. And she knew she never would. She was angry, and in the kind of pain that feels as if it can actually cause a sort of death. She almost couldn't breathe. She hurt all over and every cell in her body felt the throb of losing him.

And she understood. As much as it pained her, she could see his logic. If you remove the connection, you remove the danger. She wanted to say it wasn't worth losing him to be safe, but Harry had found his own solution. It was that damned carousel again, but now Ruth was turning and Harry was no longer there.

After nearly an hour, Ruth had calmed. She poured some water from her bottle and washed her face, drying it on her cotton skirt. When she could breathe normally again, she got on the Vespa and turned it back to Paphos, back to the library. She knew she looked a sight, but she walked quietly back to the computer desk, and sent a letter in reply.

She wrote it in one go, in a stream of consciousness. When she pushed "send," she hardly knew what she had written. She only knew that it had come directly from her heart.

_My dearest love,_

_I'm dropping the pretence, because if these are the last words I say to you, I can't have them be misunderstood. You said I should not write to you, but I must. I ache down to my soul without you. I'm lost, and alone, and my comfort can only come from you. There's no one else I want._

_I need to talk to you about things, about what I've been through. I was so frightened for myself when I was being held in that room, but you were with me every moment. I've always imagined there would be so many regrets in the prospect of death, and there was only one. Not that I wouldn't see another sunset, but that I wouldn't see another one with you._

_This can't be true, can it? That our last touch was just that, our last touch? Sometimes the river asks to be pushed, doesn't it, to show it how much we want things? I'm ready to push as hard as I need to, if it means I can have you here with me. And hear this. I'm ready to drown in that river if necessary, with no regrets, so I ask you not to make decisions for me about my life. It's my right to make them, and I choose to be with you, no matter how many painted targets there are._

_If this is true, if you really won't answer me, then it's real exile. Exile from hope, from feeling, from everything. If it's true that I must never see you, hear your voice, touch your face, kiss your lips, then perhaps I should have died in that room. _

_If it's true, then my heart will continue to beat and I'll continue to breathe, but I won't live. I'll move through my days only for the sake of those I've loved who no longer have that opportunity. If I didn't feel a need to honour them, I would wear the white, flowing dress and put the flower in my hair, and wed myself to the sea. _

_But that's against my nature, so I'll live out my life without you. But you should know that there will be a space that will never fill, a need that will never be met, a part of me that's owned by you, that you'll take with you to your grave. _

_And my dearest love, you know that it will be the same for you. All I can think right now is what a monumental waste this is. People search their whole lives to find what we have, but if you turn your back on it, then so must I._

_And although I can't imagine it now, if you do turn your back on us, it's likely that I won't spend the rest of my life alone. Perhaps our talk about death comes into play, and it will be easier to imagine you have died. But if we should cross paths someday, and you ask me if I've loved again, I'll be silent, and you'll know the answer is no._

_But I grieve for our summer wedding, I grieve for books and films, and strong opinions, and laughter, and making love. I grieve for The Grand Tour, for Bath, for our dreams together._

_I must also say this. If you don't answer this letter, I'll be angry, and hurt, and will think you somewhat of a coward. Harsh words, but deserved, I think. I've had the courage to do everything that's been asked of me, uprooted, alone, searching for a meaningful existence where there sometimes seems no purpose at all. _

_I've given up everything, and I've generally done it with good grace and a healthy dose of stoicism. Always, the reward at the end of the path has been you. If I've done all this, and the reward has evaporated like the mist around our last kiss, I feel I have every right to be bitter. _

_And now, the harsh words over, I'm having trouble closing this letter, because if I don't hear back from you, I won't write again. And as long as I sit here with this narrow conduit open to you, I'm still with you. _

_How do I let go? How do I finally push the button to send this if it's the last time we'll ever communicate? I sit with my hands on the keys wanting to freeze myself here for eternity, still touching you. Still in hope, and in faith. I want to live up to that name, my love, to have faith in you, to have faith in us._

_I still believe we can be together. That we should be together. Come to me, please. Show up on my doorstep and let me remind you of what we are, of how extraordinary our love is._

_But if you can't, if you still feel you are loving me best by removing yourself from me, I will remember, forever. If these are the last words I say to you, let them be these: _

_I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Always._

She didn't sign it. It seemed superfluous somehow. Who else could have written this?

By the time Ruth had finished, she'd reached a level of acceptance, of catharsis. Her heart was empty, vacant, aching, but she told herself that if he didn't write back, she would allow him to let her go. She couldn't fight anymore.

She stood up, weary, spent. This was too hard. Hadn't it been hard from the very beginning? Stolen time, brick walls, insurmountable obstacles. Exquisitely beautiful, their love, but so hard. She would wait for an answer, but she already knew that it would never come. He loved her too much to be with her. It was the paradox of their love.

Ruth walked to the square outside the library and looked up at the bright moon. Harry might be looking at it right now, just as she was. She knew she would always wonder that, anytime she looked at the moon. In her mind, she put her arms around him and gave him one last kiss.

She closed her eyes, and Ruth finally stepped off the carousel.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR**

* * *

Harry leant on the metal railing and looked out at the London skyline. The Thames House roof was his sanctuary of sorts, not only for the fresh air and the solitude it gave him, but also for the view it afforded. When he wondered what he was doing with his life, when MI5 became too surreal to him, as it sometimes did, he came here.

Laid out in front of him was his reason for doing intelligence work. This beautiful city that he loved, and all the people in it. He always knew, when he looked out over the rooftops, that those buildings were filled with people. They may be strangers to him, but he knew who they were. They had families, children, mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, and they all deserved to be safe.

Most of them had a desire to simply travel through their days and arrive home at night in peace. But there would always be bullies who wanted to harm those people in order to show how powerful they were, or simply to prove a point. Someone had to take the side of those who couldn't defend themselves. This was the "soft underbelly" of Harry Pearce, the one he seldom spoke about to those around him. He cared deeply, passionately, about the people in those buildings, and about their right to have hopes and dreams and a safe place to realise them.

Today, Harry was remembering another day he had stood here. There had been a morning briefing and he'd watched a simulation of the effect of a thermobaric bomb on central London. It was a clinical explanation, given by Ruth, doing her job well, as always. He'd watched the yellow circle spread out over the very view he was seeing now, over buildings he recognised, streets he knew. That yellow circle signified death in the wake of a hypothetical bomb.

But Ruth's professional detachment had broken down when Malcolm had calmly called the area around the bomb a _theatre of operations._ She had replied with a sharp edge in her voice, "Shame when that _theatre of operations_ happens to be a city full of civilians." Harry had listened with gratitude. She'd spoken his heart and again allowed him the luxury of staying silent, appearing aloof, removed. He'd counted on her for that. He realised he had depended on her from the day she first walked through the door. She was his external conscience and the Grid's constant reminder that these were people they were talking about, not stick figures moving about on a map.

As he'd stood on the roof later, Ruth had found him. She always knew where to find him. He would have felt intruded upon by anyone else, but he'd been very glad to see her. In fact, he'd been on the verge of talking to her about all of those people in the buildings, because he knew she would understand, when she suddenly blurted out, "I'm not naive."

He'd turned to her in surprise. "I didn't say you were."

"It's bad enough that the bombers are home-grown, now they're going to blow us up with our own weapons." Harry felt such a strong connection to her in that moment, because she was speaking the thought he'd had right before she'd walked up to him. She was angry, and looked to be on the verge of tears.

"You're absolutely right." He knew Ruth paid the price for her sentimentality, that she fought against it in the face of Ros and Adam, who could be icy in their apparent detachment. Her feelings were always close to the surface, her heart full of compassion. She tried to hide it, to seem more disconnected, but she couldn't pull it off. The feelings were too strong in her.

This was the moment that Harry had felt himself fall. He'd been teetering on the edge for some time, ever since she'd said, "Bugger the Home Office," but as she looked back at him, her face so solemn, he hurtled headlong into love with her. On a grey day in the first week of February, talking of bombs. He'd been living with his dream of Ruth for years already, the one he'd had the night after he'd met her. He'd been fighting it, ignoring it, wishing it away, but now, on the roof of Thames House, he let go. Harry fell beyond saving, head over heels in love with Ruth Evershed.

The next words out of his mouth had been, "Would you like to have dinner one night?" and thus had begun the journey. The winding, wonderful, heartbreaking, impossible, magnificent journey that now, in the relative warmth of mid-June, had finally ended. As Harry stood without his Ruth, he looked out at the people he tried to protect, and he let his mind wander.

He saw random visions, memories of her listening on headphones to that horrible Riff and what she called music. Laughing with Sam in the break room over lunch, then serious and grave in a meeting, pained by the suffering of the world. He saw her call him a bastard, saw her stroke Danny's forehead tenderly in death, heard her say a firm "yes" sitting on the bench next to him when he asked if she would stand by him. And for some reason, here on the roof of Thames House, his mind settled on one thing, on a conversation he'd overheard, that he'd forgotten until just now.

She'd been talking about her community choir, and the joy it gave her. She was explaining to Zoe about the hymn they were practicing, "Behold, They Gain The Lonely Height." Harry knew the words. He knew the words to many hymns, not because of their religious context, but because he found their passion compelling, and he truly loved the blended and complex sound of many voices singing together. The opening words of the hymn were what Ruth was relating to Zoe,

"_Ah, vain the dream! The morning clear  
brings back earth's weary life again."_

Zoe said that it sounded depressing, but Ruth said, "No, no, it starts that way, that the dream has ended and weary life has begun again, but listen to how it ends,

"_Yet still within each faithful breast  
there dwells the thought of what shall be."_

"That's a happy ending," Ruth had said. And then she had sighed, and said, "It's about hope, about being faithful and knowing in your breast, in your heart, that it will all turn out well in the end."

Harry had stood in the doorway, unseen by the two women, and he'd heard the fervent sound of Ruth's words. _She really believes it_, he thought, _even in the face of what we see every day. An optimist. In this business._ How he needed to hear someone say that it would all turn out well in the end. She had filled his heart that day, and he'd never told her.

Harry tried to keep that thought in his mind now, because he'd come up to the roof today with a purpose. He had something to do, and he knew that it would be the end of one thing and the beginning of another. While he dreaded it, he was at the same time impatient for it.

Harry had a letter in his pocket that Malcolm had given him, a letter from Ruth, and he had come up to the privacy of the roof to read it. He pulled it out now, and before unfolding it, he leant again on the railing and looked out at London. He took a deep breath, opened it, and began to read.

As Harry read, his eyes filled, he blinked, tears spilling over, and then his eyes filled again. He wiped them with the sleeve of his coat, and still they filled. His tears dripped dark circles onto the green patina of the railing, reached its edge, and fell to the cement of the roof, and still they came. He held the back of his hand to his forehead and pressed there, his other hand shaking slightly, holding the letter.

He read it five times, and stopped himself from reading a sixth. He wanted to memorise it, to immerse himself in her pain, to share it with her so that she wouldn't have to feel it alone. And now, even with his eyes closed, he could remember what she had written. _"Not that I wouldn't see another sunset, but that I wouldn't see another one with you." _The purity of her love, of her honesty, staggered him.

Her eloquence in showing him the wound he had opened in her, _"If it's true that I must never see you, hear your voice, touch your face, kiss your lips, then perhaps I should have died in that room." _Her steadfast belief in his love for her, "_And my dearest love, you know that it will be the same for you... but if you turn your back on it, then so must I." _

Her sense of loss. "_I grieve for our summer wedding, I grieve for books and films, and strong opinions, and laughter, and making love. I grieve for The Grand Tour, for Bath, for our dreams together." _Harry's tears continued to fall. _Oh, my Ruth, so do I._

Her rage. _"I'll be angry, and hurt, and will think you somewhat of a coward." _Harsh words, yes, but true. He _was_ afraid. Although she was ready to face the danger of loving him, he wasn't strong enough to be the reason she might die. She _should_ think him a coward, he thought. He thought himself one when stood next to her.

And then, what touched him most deeply, her optimism in the face of his coldness. His sweet Ruth, ever the glass half full. _"Still in hope, and in faith. I want to live up to that name, my love, to have faith in you, to have faith in us." _So her name was Faith. Good for Malcolm, for giving her that gift. It suited her.

The hymn he had just remembered returned to his mind:

_Yet still within each faithful breast  
there dwells the thought of what shall be._

_Still in hope, and in faith, _she had written. Still a belief in the happy ending. Could he believe with her? Could he believe that beyond this time there was something more? That right now they were caught in the churning, stormy, foam-filled waters of the roughest part of the river, but that there would be a tranquil, calm place ahead? A place where they could catch their breath, finally, and float together? Harry desperately wanted to believe it. He wanted to have faith. To have Faith.

And still his tears fell. He didn't know he had so many tears. Harry was aware he was sobbing softly now, the sound lost in the monochromatic London sky, mixed in with the sounds of the city, the metallic hums of cars and lifts, the soft pad of shoes on pavement, the rustle of newspapers, the clink of glasses in pubs.

And Harry understood that he was now, himself, one of the people in the buildings he protected. One of those with hopes and dreams to be realised. But today, he couldn't see how they could ever be realised, and he felt desolate, bereft, hopeless.

Harry tried to fill his lungs and get hold of himself. He breathed in and then exhaled, restoring calm in his agonised chest. He laboured to gather his thoughts. _I'm not without choices, _he thought_._ He refolded the letter and put it back into his pocket. Although the tears were still forming, they were beginning to subside, and he gazed back out to the distant buildings of London. He shook his head roughly. _Right. I've had my breakdown. Now I think._

He could go to her, but it would have to be a total release. He would not only have to give up MI5, he would have to give up England. He would give up Harry Pearce and become William Arden. He had enough money put by to give them a good, solid life, if not an extravagant one, for as long as they both shall live. He would be doing what he had asked her to do, what she _had_ done, twice, _"With good grace and a healthy dose of stoicism."_ They would live as Faith and Will, and Harry Pearce would die with Ruth Evershed.

Harry closed his eyes. Although it felt like a simple trade of his name for his love, he couldn't reduce it to that. It was anything but black and white. The break would have to be final. They would need to disappear. He would always know things that people would want to know. Not just this year, but next, and the one after that. And she would always be his weakness, his Achilles heel.

When he was held by the IRA, he had been questioned while a gun was trained at another agent's head, a friend. He'd resisted and his friend had died, not ten metres away from him. That wouldn't be possible with Ruth. He didn't know what he would do, but for her he thought he might lose his honour, sell his friends and even his country. Or perhaps he would manage to stay silent, but he would then plead with them to put the gun to his head. The nightmare of that scenario was too much for him to contemplate, but it would be a very real possibility if they were together.

Were their dreams even possible under those circumstances? Would The Grand Tour exist if they were always looking behind them, peering around corners? Would they learn to despise each other, feel trapped, claustrophobic? Or could they fly to South America and hide next door to Zoe and Will, chatting about the old days as they formulated fiction for their legends? Was that a life either of them could tolerate for very long?

Harry put his head in his hands, his elbows hard on the railing. Perhaps a middle ground. He could go to her once. Hold her, tell her how much he loved her, reassure her. _It's only for a time, my love_, although he had no idea for how long. And if he were followed, if he jeopardised the peaceful existence she had carved out in the last month, what then? Even if nothing bad happened, he knew one night would lead to another, and another. Once the barrier was breached, it was a short step to repeat it, and each time would carry more danger, until he would be in his office again, looking at a piece of paper that said "_NO!"_ and loathing himself.

Less, then. Just letters. But didn't they have a map for that already? The letters had led to phone calls which led to visits, which led to ... and Harry was back in his office in an endless loop, desperately waiting for news of the woman he loved. All possible scenarios took him back to the same conclusion. She was safer without him. He had to let her go.

Harry sighed raggedly. He couldn't answer her. He stood on the roof of Thames House, where he had fallen finally and completely in love with Ruth Elizabeth Evershed, and he let her go. Then he let go of Sophie Persan. And now, he let go of Faith, a beautiful, barefoot woman in a flowing white dress and flowers in her hair. She was standing on a beach in Polis, and she was waving to him. Waving goodbye.

He tried to imagine a smile on her face, but for the life of him, he couldn't conjure one. And, in wonder, Harry realised that he still had more tears to cry.

* * *

Ruth thought another glass of wine was probably a bad idea. She held the bottle up close to her eyes to see the level, but unfortunately, she couldn't remember where she had started. She sipped at what was left in her glass as she walked over to her computer again.

She now had a laptop and an internet connection, but it meant that instead of making the three-hour round-trip to Paphos, she simply checked obsessively on _l'Alcove_'s IP address from home. It had been exactly a week since she'd sent the letter off to Harry. Yesterday she'd gotten the call that she'd been hired into the Accounting Department with the Polis Hospital starting Monday, and in one week it would be July. Ruth was standing on a razor-thin fence between her old life and her new one, and she was aware that she needed to jump one way or the other.

Her old life was starting to fade. She had lived for thirty-three days on Cyprus, and she'd adjusted nearly completely into its rhythms. She knew this because the Post Office hours felt entirely reasonable to her now, actually quite civilised. The days were warm, the water clear, and her flat pleasant.

If her heart hadn't fallen utterly out of her chest, leaving a cavernous hole, she thought she could, in fact, be moderately happy here.

She asked herself repeatedly about that night outside the library a week ago, and her question was this. If she had let go of Harry so completely under the full moon, how could she be in such terrible pain all the time? He was still rattling around in her head, but now there was no hope attached to the memory of him, so it always hurt. When he said something funny, she couldn't even laugh, because the ache that followed on its heels said, _You'll never laugh with him again_. Ditto the commentary on Polis life. Ditto the idea of making love. Even the happiest memories were sad. And the worst part was that he seemed to have attached himself to her brain, and there was nowhere that Ruth could hide.

She had known he wouldn't write back, and she had known why. So why in hell did she keep checking for an email? And as this thought ran through her mind, she checked again for an email. Nothing. "_Bloody stop_!" she railed at herself, and stood to resume her pacing across the room.

Nothing seemed to quite fit together anymore. She had her swim every morning, and in her head she still said good morning to him as she gazed beyond the horizon to England, but she wasn't sure he was still there, listening. She didn't know if he could hear her anymore. It disoriented her, and then the pain would hit again, the way Harry described Davey King's bullet, as a mule-kick to the chest.

Ruth paced back to her small kitchen and picked up the bottle again. _Oh, just one more glass won't hurt. I think I've only had two. Three at most._ She poured out another glass of the Cabernet, made from locally-grown grapes. Most of the wineries were in Limassol, in the South, but she had found this wine, from Nicolo Vineyards, that was made right here in Polis. Before she could stop herself, she thought, _Harry would like this wine._

"Oh, he would, would he?" she said out loud. "Well, he's not bloody _here_, is he?"

She stepped out into the early-summer warmth on her terrace. The moon was smaller now than it was last week, but it still didn't stop her from wondering if, right now, Harry was looking at it too. Ruth grimaced. "_Enough_!" she muttered to herself. She walked to the kitchen counter and set her wine down. Getting her purse, she slipped on her sandals and went to the door. She needed distraction.

Ruth really didn't have a plan as she walked down the three flights of stairs to the street, she only knew she had to find something else to think about. She had to remind herself that there was more in the world than Harry Pearce. She walked toward the Square, following the lights and the noise of the Disco Club. She thought she might see if there was a film playing tonight at the Community Hall. They were generally terrible, and the chairs were hard and of the folding variety, but she could at least immerse herself in someone else's sorry life for the evening, instead of her own.

Ruth was surprised at how tipsy she actually was, once she started walking. The cobblestones were uneven, and her sandals were thin, offering no support. She was needing to concentrate more than usual in the dark as she headed toward the Square. And suddenly, Ruth started to think that this wasn't a very good idea after all.

Polis was a lovely little town, but it did have packs of local boys who roamed the streets in their macho, very Mediterranean way, looking somewhat harmlessly for local girls. They weren't particularly sinister, but when they got together in threes and fours, they generally drank, and sometimes to excess, which made them bolder and more aggressive. And even through a bit of Cabernet haze, Ruth could see three of them walking toward her now.

It was dark where she was, especially when contrasted with the brilliant light of the Square nearly a block ahead. She could see people there, strolling, talking, but she knew they couldn't see her. She felt that her senses were dull, as if she knew what to do in a situation such as this, but couldn't quite remember what it was. She turned to look toward her flat, to see how far it would be to go back to the light of the front entrance to the building, but it seemed very far away now, and even darker than the street she was on.

So Ruth put her head down and decided to brave it out. She reminded herself that these were only boys, none older than twenty-five. Ruth was suddenly aware of how thin her blouse was, and that she had neglected to bring her jacket. She pulled her purse closer around her shoulder and joined her hands across her chest. She was only a couple of metres away now, and not only could she dimly see them, but she could hear them talking.

"_Angliká ómorfi__ gynaíka," _She heard the tallest of them say. _Beautiful English woman_. And Ruth realised that they knew of her, but probably didn't know she understood Greek. They weren't even trying to keep their voices low. She gave no indication that she understood, and hoped she could slip by them.

"_Tha í__thela kápoia apó óti." _It was another voice, and now all three were laughing, and agreeing with what was said. Ruth's heart was beginning to hammer just a bit, and the wine seemed not to be affecting her quite so much, as her senses began to return with the adrenaline. Roughly translated, the second boy had said, _I would like some of that_. As she tried to pass on the right, she saw that her way was blocked, and she stopped and looked up into the dark faces of three tall, leering young men. They were so close around her now that she could smell the combination of too-strong cologne and sweat mingled with the heat of the night.

She knew if she had to, she could scream, but there had to be a better and less dramatic way out of this predicament. Ruth pulled herself up to her full five feet, four inches and tried to look imposing. Unfortunately, two of the three were well over six foot, and the third not far behind.

"_Katálava,"_ Ruth said, trying to sound menacing. _I understand you._ Her voice sounded thin to her, and there was a slight shake to it.

The leader's smile widened, his white teeth almost glowing in the darkness. _"Af__tó eínai kaló," __That's good, _he said softly. He reached his hand out, and ran the back of his fingers lightly down the skin on her arm. Ruth shrank back, and was beginning a sharp inhale to scream, when she and the three boys heard a man's voice boom from the darkness.

"_Alexio Kostopoulos!" _The boy's hand returned quickly to his side, and all three young men turned. With the light behind him, the figure coming toward them was indistinguishable at first, but soon Ruth knew who it was. And so did the young men. Their bravado turned immediately to a reluctant, arrogant fear, and they backed away, scattering as they disappeared into the darkness.

George came quickly to her side, and then looked out to where they had run. "I know their parents, all of them. They're just bored. They won't bother you again." He peered into Ruth's eyes in the meagre light. "You okay?"

Ruth nodded. Although she was grateful George was there, she had no desire to continue to be the damsel in distress every time the poor man encountered her. She was shaking just a bit, and tried to collect herself. "I'm fine, really. Just felt a little cornered, is all." The adrenaline was retreating now, and Ruth was dealing with a strange combination of embarrassment and mild inebriation. She leant against the brick wall to steady herself.

"I'm really not this helpless usually." Ruth sighed loudly. "I'm very seldom in need of rescuing, and now you've done it twice." She realised she wasn't sounding very grateful, so she added, "Thank you, I appreciate your help, George. Again."

"You're welcome. And they wouldn't have gone much further. They just like to have something to talk about tomorrow. As I said, they're bored. They know every girl in town already, and you're different, new." He pointed toward the lights. "Were you going to the Square?"

"Yes. I was going to see if there was a movie playing." At once, Ruth realised he would probably go with her and, nice as he was, she wasn't anxious for company tonight. She added, hurriedly, "But I think I'll go home now. I'm rather out of the mood." She started to turn, but slowed in the face of the darkness between where she was and her flat.

George quickly fell into pace with her. "I'll walk you. They won't be back, but it's probably a good idea for you not to go alone."

Ruth was still feeling a bit unsteady, so she concentrated all of her energy on putting one foot in front of the other on the uneven stones. As she did, her mind seemed to focus as well. She stopped suddenly, and turned to him. "That's quite a coincidence, isn't it? How is it that you happened to be walking by at just that moment?"

George laughed, "Ah, the suspicious foreigner is back." It was darker here, but Ruth's eyes were adjusting. She could see George look down at his feet, and she thought he seemed slightly embarrassed. "You're correct. I wasn't just walking by. I've heard some talk of you, and thought I would take my regular coffee in the Square just in case you ventured out."

Ruth was dumbfounded. "_Talk_ of me?"

He looked up. "Faith, you must understand, Polis has a population of 3,000, and that's a broad estimate. The vast majority of those live in the country and hardly venture to town." He paused and weighed his next words carefully. "When a beautiful Englishwoman comes to live here ... alone ... it is noticed."

For a moment, Ruth was speechless. She thought she'd been so inconspicuous, and all this time there was _talk_ about her? "What do they say?" she asked incredulously.

George indicated that they should keep walking as he spoke, "They say that you are very kind." He snuck a look back at her, smiling. "I said beautiful, yes?" Ruth kept her eyes on the ground and didn't react, so he continued. "They also say you seem very sad."

Ruth's mind returned to the night outside the library in Paphos. She had been uncertain then, but now she felt that George was interested in her as more than a friend. Her heart was so completely entwined with Harry's that she hadn't wanted to see it, but the way he said the words "beautiful" and "sad" spoke it clearly to her. What was confusing was that she thought he was a good man, a kind one, and God knew she needed friends — that was made apparent to her tonight. She knew she didn't want to encourage him, but didn't know quite what to say, so she said nothing.

They reached her door in silence, and Ruth stepped into the small lounge on the ground floor of the building. She turned, and said, "Thank you, George. I appreciate your help." Although she really did mean it, and she meant to say it warmly, her words came out rather clipped.

George stepped back and pursed his lips. "Faith, have I said something to offend you?"

Ruth tilted her head, frowning, "No, no, I'm sorry. I ... I can't ... I need a friend, George, but I can't offer anything more. I want you to understand that." She thought she never would be saying these things without the bravery of the glasses of wine she'd had earlier. "Am I misinterpreting?"

He smiled, and looked slightly abashed. "Ah, the directness of English women. I'd forgotten." After a pause, he answered her, shaking his head, his eyes on the ground. "No, you're not misinterpreting, but I had hoped it wasn't that obvious." He looked up at her. "I can see that your situation is...complicated."

Suddenly, Ruth was overwhelmed with love for Harry, and she thought the man before her couldn't be more different than the man she wished was standing here now. She felt her eyes begin to fill, and she backed further into the lounge, beginning to close the door. "I'd like to be your friend, George, but as for anything else ... my heart's taken. It always will be." The door was only open a tiny bit now, and her voice was beginning to quaver, "Thanks again. Good night."

She just managed to get the door closed before her tears spilled over entirely.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE**

* * *

It was a Friday at the end of July, and Malcolm felt they'd all had enough of the long face he saw in Harry's office every day. He was standing at Harry's door after having dropped a report on his desk, and he had a plan. "When was the last time you saw Tom and Christine?" Malcolm asked.

Harry turned to him, shrugging slightly. "A month ago? They came into town and we had dinner. Why?"

"I'm driving up to Liverpool for the week-end to do some work for them. Come with me. They would very much like to see you."

Harry immediately shook his head. "I can't." He made a show of shuffling some files on his desk. "I have too much to do."

Malcolm looked at him from under his brows. "Harry, Connie nearly nodded off this morning compiling the threat report. There's nothing going on, and you know it."

Harry had the feeling Malcolm was going to stand there until he said yes. The truth was, Harry didn't know what to do with himself. The prospect of muddling through a repeat of the last three long week-ends alone was not an attractive one. Company would be nice, and he did enjoy being with Tom and Christine very much.

Their last dinner had left him sadder than when it started, however. The three of them tried to reclaim the lightness they'd enjoyed when Ruth was in Paris, but it was elusive. They didn't talk about the fourth chair, but she was there nonetheless, a ghost, as if she _had_ drowned in the Thames so long ago. Harry sighed, and said to Malcolm, "I don't think I … "

Malcolm could sense that he was weakening slightly. "Come on. Spend one week-end as part of the human race again. Then you can come back to your dreadful mood. It will always be here, you know."

Harry growled, "I'm not in a dreadful mood." To Malcolm's highly sceptical look, he said, "What about the animals?" Even Harry could hear that he was losing this battle.

"You know how Wes loves them. He'll be thrilled, and Adam still has his key, yes?"

Harry looked up at his friend, sadly. "I'm afraid I won't be very good company, Malcolm."

"Then we'll get you drunk and keep you that way." He was starting to walk away now, enjoying his victory. "You're leaving the Grid early today. Pick you up at your house at four."

By half-past four, they were on the road to Liverpool. Harry wasn't always a happy occupant of the passenger seat, usually preferring to drive himself, but today he didn't feel a need to be in control. He was quite willing to sit and wallow in his melancholy. Malcolm was single-minded in his goal that Harry would cheer up, and he had even resorted to telling jokes to accomplish it.

Harry was already stifling a laugh, but it was because he was listening to what he thought might be the longest and worst joke he'd ever heard. It didn't help that Malcolm was telling it with death-like gravity. Something about two parsnips crossing the road, one gets hit by a lorry and is taken to hospital, and now, finally, the husband-parsnip is hearing the prognosis about the wife-parsnip from the doctor. Harry could tell Malcolm was winding up for the punch line.

"And the doctor says sadly to the husband-parsnip, 'I'm afraid she'll be a vegetable for the rest of her life.'" Malcolm glanced sharply over at Harry, and the expectant look on his face was enough to put Harry over the edge. He laughed, and Malcolm returned his eyes to the road with a smug look.

Harry shook his head, saying, "That's a terrible joke, Malcolm, but it's clean, so I'll try to remember it for Wes."

"And, of course, you'll give credit where it's due."

Harry nodded his head, "Oh, yes, Malcolm, you can be _assured_ of that."

Malcolm drove in silence for a few moments, and then said, "And now that I have achieved the impossible and finally made you laugh, I would like to tell you a story."

Harry rubbed his forehead, smiling. "I'm not sure I can survive another joke, Malcolm."

"Not a joke. A story." Malcolm's voice softened. "About the lovely Sarah."

Harry turned to him, surprised. _The lovely Sarah_. Harry remembered Connie's question to Malcolm. Malcolm had answered, "Sarah wasn't to be, I'm afraid." Harry had never heard of a woman in Malcolm's life, although of course Connie knew. He meant to ask Malcolm about it, but in the crisis that followed, Harry had frankly forgotten.

Harry thought he hadn't been a very good friend to Malcolm, and he should have asked. He turned in his seat, ready to listen. Malcolm said wryly, "You're not the only one with a great and tragic love, Harry."

Malcolm looked back to the road. "Connie said she had a second-rate mind," Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "And fat thumbs. She was trying to make me feel better." Smiling sadly, he said, "Neither was true. Excellent mind, and quite beautiful thumbs, as I recall."

"How long ago was it, Malcolm? When did you last see her?"

"Six years, four months, twenty-three days, and about twelve hours." He looked at Harry. "But who's counting?" _We are, Harry thought quickly, remembering his calendar this morning. Sixty-six days since he had kissed Ruth goodbye in Dover._

Harry was incredulous. Malcolm was smitten, truly in love, even thinking of her. After six years. Harry could see it now, the deep sadness, the resignation that always seemed to be there under the surface. Harry felt ashamed that he'd never noticed it before.

Malcolm continued, "I keep tabs on her. She's still living in the same place, still at the same job, haven't seen a name change yet, no licences applied for, and Sarah's certainly not the girl to live with someone. I suppose she's now classified as a middle-aged spinster. So I have to assume she still pines for me a bit as well." Harry didn't say anything, but was listening intently.

"We were ... _are_, I think ... very much in love. She's a teacher, English Literature, O Levels, and brilliant. Not a supermodel, but then again ... " Malcolm glanced over to Harry with an amused smile curling his lips, "Neither am I." He paused for a moment, his eyes focused on the road, but his sight was somewhere else entirely. "I think she's the most beautiful woman I've ever met. She never could believe that, but it was true then, and it's true now." His voice grew softer, more wistful. "We were very good together, Sarah and I."

Suddenly it came into Harry's mind that he had never seen a request from Malcolm to socialise with the lovely Sarah. _Malcolm, the rule follower_. But Harry didn't ask. He understood better than anyone how the rules can be bent for love. "But it ended. How did it end, Malcolm?"

Malcolm sighed. "She ended it. Didn't much like my job. It was the only thing we ever argued about, you know?" He looked over at Harry and realised that was a rhetorical question if there ever was one. "She said I was secretive, that I didn't trust her, that I would get myself killed one day, and then where would she be? She wouldn't even have known me." He sighed again. "She was right."

"I walked out of her door all those years ago, and told her that I would always love her but that one day I would no longer love my job. That someday I would be back. She said she might not be there. I said I hoped she would be."

Harry was still reeling a bit. He knew this conversation wasn't a random one. Malcolm had probably been planning it since before he'd asked Harry to come to Liverpool. The reason for Malcolm's revelation was obvious, it was a gift, and Harry wanted to honour it. Might as well get to the heart of the matter. "Did you ever think of leaving the Service for her, Malcolm?"

Malcolm turned and smiled. Yes, this was the question he was waiting for. Harry hadn't yet spoken of leaving, but Malcolm had been feeling it from his friend since the last letter had arrived from Ruth over a month ago. He nodded, his lips tight together. "Many times, Harry. You can't imagine how often." He looked pointedly at Harry. "Well, perhaps now you can."

Harry was grateful for this conversation, grateful to Malcolm. He had wanted to talk to someone about this very much. "But you never did leave. Why didn't you?"

Malcolm paused. "Do you remember the story of Edward VIII?" Malcolm knew it was a non sequitur of sorts, but he also knew that Harry would make the connection immediately.

"Yes." Of course, Harry knew the story. Edward VIII, King in 1936. He fell in love with Wallis Simpson, American socialite, twice divorced. Edward was told by the Church of England that he could never marry her. In December of 1936, after only ruling since January of the same year, he abdicated the throne with a famous speech. Harry frowned, "What was it he said in his abdication speech, Malcolm, about 'the woman I love'?"

Malcolm recited it exactly, and with some reverence. "_I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility, and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do, without the help and support of the woman I love_."

Harry smiled at the perfect recitation. "Yes, that one."

Malcolm continued, "I was rather obsessed by the story when I was younger, read everything I could get my hands on. Thought it was at once the most romantic and the most absurd thing I'd ever heard of. A Monarch of the Realm giving up his throne for an American divorcee who was thought by all round to be only after his money and his power."

In truth, Harry had fallen more on the side of thinking the whole affair absurd rather than romantic, but it seemed much sadder to him now, as he recalled it. As he looked out at the passing countryside, Harry thought how interesting it was that his own pain had opened him up to the pain of others so completely. He said softly, "He became the Duke of Windsor, and wasn't even given the honour of having her officially called his Duchess."

Malcolm turned off on to the M6 toward Liverpool. "It was like fiction, really, wasn't it? I couldn't let go of it, and I always found myself scanning for news of the two of them. And do you know, Harry, I never saw a photo of Edward after that where he looked truly happy. For twenty-five years."

Malcolm waited for that to sink in, and then he looked directly at Harry, with purpose. "I mean, you would hope that if you gave up a Kingdom, you would spend the rest of your life in bliss with the person you gave it up for, wouldn't you?"

Harry smiled at his old friend. "Yes, you would hope so."

Malcolm looked back at the road. "But then I started to think, if you've given all that up, isn't it practically a foregone conclusion that your life will never live up to it? Who even knows if they were happy? Everyone wanted to believe they were, of course, but they had to stay together, didn't they? It's not as if you can abdicate all of England, and then say, 'Gosh, I guess this wasn't such a good idea after all.'"

Harry didn't answer right away, but when he did, there was great affection in his voice for his old friend. "Thank you, Malcolm. With the obvious understanding that the Grid and the Kingdom are two quite different seats of power, I appreciate the analogy. And yes, I have thought often of leaving, but something has always stopped me."

"And it's how I always felt about Sarah. It was too much pressure to put on her. On us." Malcolm sighed. "I _will_ give this up someday and she'll be the first one I call. She may not be there, but it was still the right decision, Harry."

"I hope the lovely Sarah is still there, Malcolm."

"And I hope Ruth is still there as well, Harry."

Harry dismissed the thought with a shrug. "Well, our situation is entirely different."

Malcolm looked at him and smiled. "Not so different, Harry. And the sooner you realise that, the better off you'll be. This too shall pass. And love will find out the way."

As he looked at Malcolm, Harry felt a glimmer of something that had been achingly absent from his life since Ruth went to Cyprus. _Hope_. He had been thinking in black and white terms, which he knew was never how things turned out. He was in a frame of mind of having her or not having her, but he hadn't allowed for the possibility that their situations might be different someday, and that their love might survive it.

And Harry thought, despite six years, four months, and whatever it was, Malcolm was still as full of hope as if it had been days. It may be foolish for him to think that Sarah was still there for him, but no more foolish than assuming it was impossible that she would be.

Malcolm saw a slight shift in Harry. He had that look in his eyes when he was working something through, a new idea. Malcolm thought this conversation had worked out quite as well as he'd planned it in his head. He made his final point. "How long would you wait, Harry, if you knew you could have Ruth at the end of it? It's only been two months. It may be that you can't have her now, but who knows what the future holds?" Malcolm paused, and then said with a sly smile, "Faith, Harry."

Harry always tried not to underestimate his old friend, but he continued to find that he did. "Thank you, Malcolm, for getting me away from the Grid. I needed a new way of thinking."

Harry took a deep breath and leant his head back, looking out the window. He felt his heart relax, as he loosened his vice-like grip on it. His love for Ruth had always been there, but Harry realised he had been trying to hold it off for months now, as if it were an enemy.

Now he let it flow back through him, and the relief was indescribable. "Yes, Malcolm. I must have faith."

* * *

Ruth had never been paid in fish before, but a small hospital in a rural area needed to be prepared for that eventuality, she supposed. She was astonished the first time she took a bag of freshly-caught bass to her supervisor. In return, she received an unconcerned look and was pointed in the direction of an ice cooler. At the end of the day, the doctors came through and helped themselves. She was told that she was welcome to it as well, if she would promise that she would eat it that night and enjoy it.

But it was up to her to make the books tally, and it was a process that amused her no end. They had developed a sort of barter schedule for fish, game, grapes, various quantities and types of vegetables, and even farm animals. In fact, one of Ruth's first tasks was to calculate the value of a burro as payment for an appendix removal. That was one for her resume, she thought.

Ruth had quickly learned to appreciate her job. Where the Grid had been all grey areas and intuition, the Polis Chrysochous Hospital and Rural Health Centre required nothing of her but common sense and steadiness. Be on time, do your job, and then head off to the market or a swim. She'd had to switch her morning swim to an afternoon one, but that was really the only change she'd been required to make. The dress code was as casual as it could be, and the hours were Cyprus hours, start early, and leave early, before the heat of the day.

One of the first people she had seen there was Dr. George Constantinou, but he had clearly taken her last communication to heart. He was offering her only friendship and asking for nothing more. The disconcerting softness that she had seen in his eyes on that night a month ago was gone. It had been replaced by what seemed to be only a kind desire to help her acclimatise and not feel so alone in her new life.

Ruth found she was increasingly grateful for George's friendship, because, aside from the tourists, there weren't many who spoke English. She loved the Greek language, and was getting to a point far past fluency with almost no accent. But she still felt an ease, a comfort, of speaking her native tongue.

And now she knew more of his story, which was an interesting one. He'd been married to an English girl, Emily, and they'd had a son, Nico, who was eight years old. George had met Emily when he was in London at his studies. They'd fallen deeply in love and married quickly, against the protestations of his Greek Orthodox family. They'd lived in London, where Nico was born, until George finished his internship. George and Nico had taken frequent trips to Cyprus, but Emily always had a reason to stay behind in London.

When George achieved his degree, everything had fallen apart. It had never occurred to Emily that she would one day move to Cyprus, to a town where people paid for their medical services in burros. George had never thought he would use his skills in any other way than for the good of his people. Each had skimmed over their differences, thinking they could change the other, but when it came down to it, neither was willing to budge.

So Emily stayed in London with the opera, and the art galleries, and the West End. George went back to Cyprus to offer the fruits of a London medical education to the poor people of Polis. Nico vehemently chose, at seven years old, to live on the vineyard with his father, grandmother, aunts, uncles, and myriad cousins in the sunshine of Cyprus.

In fact, the wine Ruth had been drinking on that night a month ago was from their vineyard, named for Nico. Nicolo Vineyards covered 20 acres of rich land, but it was a young vineyard, the first bottles having been decanted the year Nico was born eight years ago, hence the name.

George's sister, Christina, was a favourite of Nico's, and his connection to her seemed somehow stronger even than the one he had to his mother. Nico would visit his mother on holidays, but she seemed cold and distant to him, and he had never taken to the city. He preferred to swim, to play in the green hills of Polis with his cousins, and to help out on the vineyard for extra money. And he dearly loved his father.

So George was nursing a broken heart of his own, and Ruth found that strangely comforting. Two damaged people with their own language, finding each other on a small island, and offering companionship.

Ruth had discovered all this on a Sunday morning when she had taken her copy of _The Times_ to read over a cup of coffee in the Square. She had looked over and two tables away, George was doing exactly the same thing with his own copy of _The Times_. She had laughed, and with her now-familiar suspicious look, had said, "George?"

He'd put his hands up and said, "No, not this time, Faith Ruth! I didn't know you were here. I promise I am not following you." She then moved to his table, and they'd had a lively and very pleasant discussion of the news in Britain. He'd told her his story, and she had told him nothing. And she was again grateful that he didn't ask.

So Ruth was finding her way on Cyprus, and the Grid was gradually fading. So was Paris, although she missed Isabelle terribly and thought often of writing to her. She didn't, because she knew that just once wouldn't be enough. And she trusted that somehow Harry had gotten word to Isabelle that Ruth was safe and cared for, so that she wouldn't worry.

She wondered about her flat in Paris, and if Harry had done as she asked and retrieved her necklace and ring. She missed them terribly as well.

But she missed nothing and no one as terribly as she missed Harry.

Ruth still loved Harry every bit as deeply as she had when she said to goodbye to him in Dover. He was with her everywhere, a permanent resident of her heart. She felt broken, and she knew the chronic pain would always be with her, the way a physical pain can be, from a severe wound that has never fully healed. She was resigned to it, and just as someone may groan each morning under the strain of waking with injured muscles, she started each day with an ache that gradually worked its way to a feeling of relative normalcy.

No matter how she tried to move on, she found she couldn't. She fell asleep crying most nights, although there was no catalyst, no difficult moment, no specific memory that brought it on. She would put her head on the pillow and find a wave of emotion in her chest that wouldn't be held down. As she lay sobbing, Ruth knew that she would always love him, as she had told him so many times. Forever. He would always be in her life, whether or not he was physically present.

Tonight, as she did every night as she fell asleep, she wondered where he was, what he was doing, how he was feeling. And in her deep love for him, she hoped Harry wasn't in the same kind of pain she felt, although she doubted that was true.

Ruth looked at the clock. Two in the morning. Midnight in London. Was he awake, thinking of her? She reached her legs back, to where he should have been, and felt emptiness. As the tears spread again into her pillow, she said aloud softly, "Oh, Harry … will it ever get better?"

The question hung heavily in the sultry Cyprus air. She knew it was just her imagination, or perhaps the beginnings of a welcome dream, but Harry put his arms around her, and as she fell asleep, she felt his lips warm on her ear, whispering, "Yes, my Ruth. Yes."


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX**

* * *

"And _then_ ..." Harry said, attempting to drain the last of his scotch in the middle of a laugh, nearly resulting in disaster, " ... he pulled the bloody trigger!"

"You shoot your boss once, you never hear the end of it," Tom said with a huge smile. He looked up at Harry, protesting, "I aimed."

Shaking his head, Harry said, "It was a _very_ traumatic experience. I must be exceptionally drunk to be laughing about it. Christ, I almost lost a lung."

"Yes, but you _didn't_, did you? As I said, I _aimed_." Now Tom, Malcolm and Harry were talking at once, as Christine stood to get another beer. She looked around, and Harry's glass was the only empty one. She touched his shoulder lightly and pointed to his glass. He looked up, smiling at her, and said, "Thank you."

_It's so good to see Harry smile again_, she thought. _It's been a long time_. Ruth had been gone for two months now. Harry hadn't told Tom and Christine where she was, he'd only told them that she'd been abducted and they'd gotten her back, but just barely. When he related the minimum of information to them at their last restaurant dinner, Christine had seen a fear in Harry's eyes that chilled her to the core.

At the same time, he'd asked them to stop their Maudsley investigation. He'd said that not only did he not want her cleared, he wanted her as far away from him and from England as possible. She could see that he felt to blame for what had happened to Ruth, and there was nothing, and no one, who could persuade him otherwise. So Christine and Tom were no longer helping Harry on a freelance basis. They were back to being simply friends, which was wonderful in its way. But the fourth chair was empty, and all three of them missed Ruth very much.

Christine's affection for Harry had grown in the time they'd spent together, and now she knew absolutely why Tom felt as he did about him. "A marshmallow wrapped in stone" was how Christine described him to Tom recently, and Tom had laughed, nodding. Since Ruth had left, the difference in Harry seemed inevitable, of course, and Christine found it had made her inexpressively sad for him. The light had gone out of his eyes.

It really was as if a blind man had been given sight for a period of time, and then it was wrenched away from him. As if he had experienced the beauty of colours, but could no longer see them. Harry's heart had expanded, but now it was big and empty, with his beloved Ruth gone. He had told them briefly of the last few letters he and Ruth had sent to each other, but it was too painful for him to talk about at any length.

Christine hoped time would heal Harry and Ruth, but she also harboured a hope that things would change, somehow. Stranger things had happened. But bless Malcolm, he'd managed to get Harry up for the week-end, and gradually, with lots of laughter and a liberal dose of single malt, Harry had begun to enjoy himself. Christine filled his glass and got a beer for herself, and walked back into the lounge.

She heard Malcolm speaking in a somewhat high-pitched voice, with a bit of a brogue, " ... and then Sam says, 'I've already thrown out all my pills, and it's not the best time of the month for me to do that, I can tell you _that_ much.' My God, you should have seen Harry's face." The three of them dissolved into laughter again, as Christine placed Harry's glass in front of him.

Tom said, "Sorry I missed that briefing. She was an original, wasn't she?" Tom put his arm around Christine again, as she sat down next to him." Where did Sam end up?"

Harry said, "We seconded her to GCHQ, to research. She was always good at it. The only thing she couldn't do was manage her emotions, deal with the loss. I've heard excellent reports, she's doing well." He took a sip of his scotch. "And it was a trade of sorts, they'd wanted Ruth back ... so ... " He'd spoken before he thought, and stopped himself.

The room went silent for a moment, and then Malcolm said, "None of that. New subject. What are we doing tomorrow?"

Tom said, "You're applying your magic to our possessed computer system, that's what. We've added one more to the network, and now the whole thing is a load of bollocks."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Tom, I as I continue to try to impress upon you, computers don't have personalities. They only do what you tell them to do. If they're not doing what you want, then you're telling them _the wrong thing_."

Tom shook his head. "Then thank God you're here, because there's definitely a language barrier. We need an interpreter, Malcolm."

Malcolm emptied his glass. "And as that's the case, it's very late, and I'm slightly drunk. We should be off to the inn if you want to get anything remotely helpful out of me tomorrow." He looked over at Harry, who nodded.

Christine said, "I wish we had more room here. I wish we could put you up. " She glanced over at Tom, "Someday soon, we'll have a nice big house of our own, and you'll have to come back and stay."

Malcolm stood a bit unsteadily. "Yes, but you don't have a view of the sea, and that is what I require right now. I want to hear the waves crashing on the shore." He started to put his coat on, but missed the armhole. Harry stood to help him, and as he walked by Tom and Christine, he whispered, smiling, "We'll get a cab and pick up the car tomorrow. I've a feeling neither of us should be driving."

Tom laughed softly and started toward the phone, "Good idea."

They said their goodnights, and Harry and Malcolm went to the same hotel Malcolm enjoyed every time he came to Liverpool. Now that Malcolm had shared his story of Sarah with Harry, he couldn't stop talking about her. As Harry got him safely to his room, Malcolm was saying how much Sarah would like this place, and how it would be the first holiday they would take together. Harry shook his friend's hand, said goodnight, and went to his own room.

Harry's room had a balcony and a mini-bar. After getting ready for bed, he poured himself one more drink and went out to hear the waves and look at the moon. He always wondered where Ruth was, and if she was looking at the moon at the same time he was. He pulled his dressing robe around him and thought it must certainly be warmer where she was.

Taking a deep swallow of his scotch, Harry sighed and laid his head back on the chair. He had to admit he felt better. The combination of Malcolm's insights and the good company of tonight had done wonders for his disposition. Things had been looking rather black lately, and now, Harry could see a glint of light just on the horizon. As Malcolm had said, who knows what the future will bring? It had only been two months, after all.

He and Ruth had talked about destiny during their two days at Harry's house, about what was meant to be. She thought they'd scaled every wall that had been put in front of them, and she saw it as a sign that they would ultimately be together. Harry was naturally more sceptical and pragmatic, but he'd begun to come round to her way of thinking as they'd sat in front of the fire.

At the very least, he'd felt that they were a force to be reckoned with. It seemed that anything could be thrown at them, and through sheer will and stubbornness, they would overcome it. He'd forgotten that feeling in the last two months. Ruth had always been the one to talk about how many people in the world had to live through separations. She'd talked about Isabelle and Pierre, about the year they'd spent apart, and how strong they became in spite of it, or perhaps even because of it.

Would he feel the same about Ruth in a year, even with no communication? Harry had no doubt he would. He thought of Malcolm and his six years away from Sarah, and Harry felt he hadn't even scratched the surface of those around him. What had Ruth said? _Everyone you meet has a story that can break your heart_.

So as he looked at the moon, the same moon that was in her sky on Cyprus, he reached out to her. Closing his eyes, he concentrated all his love toward her. _Do what you have to do, my love. Live your life, but hold a place for me. I will do the same. I'll keep a space in my heart that is exactly your size and shape, forever, in hopes that someday you'll come back to fill it. We can't know what fate has in store for us, but we can believe that it means us to be together. _

Harry heard Ruth in his head often, her voice as clear to him as it had been the last time he'd seen her. And now as he looked out at the vast ocean, he thought he heard her under the sound of the waves, speaking softly. "Harry ... will it ever get better?" He heard the pain behind the question, but it was definitely Ruth's voice. He'd been wondering the same thing, so it didn't surprise him that he'd conjured her saying it.

His eyes were still closed. To comfort himself, he imagined his arms around her, and he said "Yes, my Ruth. Yes." It was midnight in Liverpool, two in the morning on Cyprus.

Harry finished his drink, crawled into the clean white sheets of his hotel bed, and fell fast asleep. But not before he also imagined that Ruth's arms were warm around him.

* * *

_August 8_

_My dear Harry,_

_Honestly, I give up. I talk to you all day long in my head, and I find I can't remember what I've told you and what I haven't, so I repeat myself endlessly. It's distracting me, and in order to preserve my sanity, I must write things down. No, my love, I will never send this, and yes, I'll transfer it to code the moment I finish. I have a moderate library of books now, and I'll be using a worn-out reprint edition of _Pride and Prejudice_ for the source book. _

_Ah, the conundrum. Did I just give away the key here? But if someone can read it, haven't they already found it out? I shake my head, acknowledging that my spook sense is rusty, and then I find on second thought that I don't much care. I'm weary of spying. It took you from me, and right now I'm extremely angry with it._

_I should tell you of my life here, because although everyone in Polis seems to know my business, I fear you have broken with me completely. I wonder sometimes if the newsboy, or the large woman at the fish stand who hugs everyone, or the ancient man who watches me swim every day, is someone who reports back to you. I would like to think that you still need word of me, that you receive Eyes Only communiqués of my wine consumption (which is rather significant, I'm ashamed to admit), and my consorting with doctors at the hospital._

_On that note, just in case, I want to ease your mind. If a satellite photo should cross your desk of me reading _The Times_ in the Polis Centre Square, you will see, every Sunday, a very dark, male head sitting next to me. He is my friend. His name is George Constantinou and he's a doctor. _

_And if you see fit to be jealous, you're welcome to, as I think it shows a healthy respect of my ability to attract a man, even in my weakened condition. But I will never be in love with him, Harry. It's simply a matter of physics, my dearest love. A glass that's already full cannot have more poured into it._

_Cyprus is the same place you and I spent those lovely days together, and I thank you for that. Actually, as I write this, I realise I could probably go wherever I wanted to at this point. Just pack up and head to New York, become the Atlanticist I always professed to be. But I won't, because this is where you can find me, should you ever decide to try._

_The tears are starting again, on the power of that last sentence, but I'm as tired of crying as I can be. My life seems to be taken up with either crying, or getting over crying, or trying not to cry, or trying to make it look as if I haven't been crying. What a bore that makes me. _

_There's an old woman who frequents the Square who seems to be a professional widow. She wears black, yards of it, every day, all day, no matter how hot. She still begs anyone who will listen to hear the story of her Eleftherios, her husband, who died suddenly of a mysterious fever at twenty-six when they were passionately in love. _

_Her name is Inessa, which coincidentally means chaste in Greek, and her life stopped the day he died. Now she simply re-runs the seven years they were together so long ago, in an endless monologue to every person passing, and she is ignored by most of the people here. She's become a part of the landscape, like the babbling fountain in the centre of the Square, with only neophytes such as myself able to be roped into listening to her story. And listen I have, because I see her as a warning._

_But you're not dead, are you, my love? You're very much alive, and I have the disadvantage of having memorised you so thoroughly that you hover everywhere. There's an office with a wall of glass at the hospital, and God help me, it's just across from my desk. I imbue it with red light, and instead of the heavily-moustached Director with his florid cheeks and precariously overhanging belly, out you walk. Looking so blindingly handsome to me, Harry, and wearing the tie I picked out for you this morning. _

_You glance surreptitiously at me with that smile that only I can see, and I glance back, casually, as if I don't care. And again, we've spoken volumes. Not only "I love you," which is at the beginning and ending of every sentence, but we've practically planned dinner with our eyes. _

_Oh, how I miss you. My love, my Harry. And here come the tears again, damn them. I wonder if wine turns to tears? "And her tears flowed like wine..." Bukowski, I think. Not much use for my analyst skills here, although I cannot seem to stop analysing._

_And despite the wet spots now leaking into my keyboard, I must admit I do feel slightly better. I don't want to make this too long, or I'll be up all night coding it, so I'll close now with the words I say every night as you climb into bed with me: I love you, Henry James Pearce, and always will. Find your way to me. Soon._

_Your Ruth_

* * *

_September 3_

_My dearest Ruth,_

_I suppose if I must find a silver lining to being without you, my diary entries have increased exponentially. Why do I keep a diary? I'm not quite sure, but it has something to do with Graham and Catherine understanding what their Dad was doing while he wasn't with them. _

_Of course, for the last 106 days (yes, my love, it has been that long since I kissed you goodbye in the Dover mist), they will hear little of British security, and plenty of their Dad's sentimental heart overflowing. Not a bad thing, I suppose, for them to discover what lurks beneath the cold exterior which is all they really know of me._

_Christine let slip the other night that she once called me a "marshmallow surrounded by stone." You will smile at that, I think, but it disconcerts me a bit. The surface is too easily breached with a hard rap on anything solid. And my love, I have been breached, badly._

_But, for the sake of the realm, you'll be pleased to know that I've gone back to compartmentalising. I spend my days in relative competence, and have actually been of some use to Her Majesty's Security Service lately. Then in the evenings, I come home to my three steadfast girls and bore them to sleep with stories of my love for you. _

_With evident concern on their furry little faces, they tell me that I drink too much, but I can't seem to impress upon them the number of drinks I don't have that I would like to. They worry about my eating habits, which tend toward the take-away and pre-packaged sort. But especially, they see me pacing and hear me talking into this microphone every night, and I'm sure they fear for my sanity._

_What do you do all day? What do you do at night? Who are you with? Does anyone make you laugh? And who do you bless with that radiant smile of yours? These are the questions that set me to pacing. And no, my love, not in a good way (I still wonder what you meant by that – another Ruth question I forgot to ask while I could, and so I file it away here to ask you later. Later. I can't conceive of there not being a later, my Ruth)._

_And I know I would only need to ask Malcolm a few simple questions. Where does she work? Where does she live? Who are her friends? Does she have a car? He would quickly come up with answers, and I would know so much about your life. It's more tempting for me than you can possibly imagine, but I don't do it._

_Why? Because that's a slippery slope, my Ruth. Like having one cigarette after quitting, one drink, one fix. It would never stop there. Not until I was back in your arms and we had erased the last three-and-a-half months in an instant. _

_I'm not willing to have the pain of this time apart mean nothing, to be back where we started again, with you in danger. It's the only thing that stops me. That, and the vision of you there, safe in the lush vegetation, by now I'm sure looking less like a pale English rose and more like one of Rousseau's brown and sleek beauties._

_So, with that picture in my mind, I'll move on to news of the Grid, to save myself from another of the dozen maudlin entries I've made to this diary. As I said, I'm getting better at compartmentalising._

_We're moving closer to retrieving an agent who's been held in a Russian prison for eight years. I'm in negotiations on the phone with my Russian counterpart, and we hope to make a trade soon for one of their agents we've recently acquired. But the wheels are turning slowly, and I'm impatient for a resolution. Our officer's name is Lucas North, and although I wasn't responsible for his capture, I feel responsible that he's been there so long. He was a good man eight years ago, but I confess I wonder who we will get back._

_And here's a very big secret, my love, that I can only tell you. Ros is working for us again, under very deep cover in Russia. It did surprise me to hear from her, through a monumentally complicated network of our agents there, but it didn't surprise me that she was bored to distraction with exile and private life. She said if I didn't allow her to come back to work for us she would leap summarily from a tall structure, or stand in front of a speeding lorry, or some such. Ros is just not an everyday girl, and I understand that she was working at a dress shop in St Petersburg and almost murdered a customer who couldn't make up her mind. Probably safer for the general public to keep her busy with spying. I will keep you posted._

_Adam is still walking the fine line between his paralysing grief and his work, and I must admit that at times I despair that the grief will ever completely leave him. I say that from the perfect vantage point of my own insanity, having lost you, the love of my life. He and I have talked about it, and we've created a very small, very tentative support group of sorts, without acknowledging it. I do feel closer to understanding him than I ever have done. Wes keeps him sane, I think. Adam has to care for him, which requires him to be places on time and offer adult supervision, but having seen them together, I sometimes wonder who supervises whom. That little boy is wise beyond his years._

_I also worry that our Jo is not doing well. She has a fearsome combination of hurt, anger, hatred, and terror behind her eyes, and they're all mixed in with the sweetness that is her natural way of being. Quite surreal, actually. I can be looking at her and see them all flashing by in a split-second. She's working with Diana, but she looks haunted, and very thin. Adam says she's been running obsessively, sometimes until her feet are bloody and bruised. If it goes much further, we may need to have her stay at Tring for a time, at least until the memories of her captivity recede a bit._

_Every time I look at Jo, I think it might have been you, my Ruth. And it gives me the strength I need to prevent me from boarding a plane and coming to you. We are without each other, you and I, but you're in one piece. And although I suspect you are very, very angry with me right now, at least you're not irretrievably damaged by the same traumas as Jo faced. _

_I wonder if Jo can ever be touched by a man again without thinking of what she's been through. I have even seen her shrink back from a friendly hand from me. The only one she really trusts is Adam. _

_I'm getting to the end of this disk, my love, so I must stop now. I'll ask Malcolm for another one tomorrow, and he will roll his eyes, seeing me for who I truly am. I suppose I must add him to the group of our three girls who think I'm irreversibly daft to speak to you so often and at such length, but talking to you is the way I get through my nights, so I try not to question it. _

_Tomorrow night I believe I'll tell you a story that will make you smile, the story of Malcolm and his lovely Sarah. It's a side to our friend that I imagine you suspected as little as I did. But on second thought, perhaps not, my psychic Ruth._

_And if you are psychic, you may not be as angry as I think, because you can reach across the miles and see into my heart. You did say in your letter, "__if you still feel you are loving me best by removing yourself from me," so I think you do understand, and that gives me more comfort than you can know._

_Have I quoted your entire letter in these recordings? I think I have, numerous times. I did finally destroy the evidence in a moment of fear. But I don't need the paper in my hands. It's memorised now, with me forever. I wander through the house like the book-keepers in the forest in _Fahrenheit 451_, remembering parts of it to hold it with me always._

_I love you, my Ruth. I can only hope you still know that. Malcolm says that the future may hold more than we can imagine. And Malcolm is in good company. Hamlet's words, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," come to mind._

_I live in hope that one of the things I don't know, that I can't even dream of, is how we will be together again. But I hope that it's already happening, that the puzzle pieces are moving without our knowing it, pulling us toward each other._

_Your ever faithful and always loving,_

_Harry_

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN**

* * *

Ruth had to admit she was a little nervous. She was meeting the entire Constantinou clan today, and she knew they would ask questions of her. She had only to allow herself to think deeply of Harry and her eyes would fill. George had caught her in that state enough times now that he simply didn't ask. As far as he knew, she'd been married, her husband had deserted or abandoned her, and she was doing her best to forget.

But Ruth was nervous today because she had learnt enough of the warmth, compassion, and general nosiness of Cypriot women to know they would have a hard time curbing their inquisitiveness at the answers that had stopped George. Not to mention the fact that she was an English woman, and they were already pre-disposed to be suspicious of her. She was worried that she would be paying part of the price that Emily had avoided.

So why was she doing it? Because George had asked her to, and he had been a very good friend to her. Also, Ruth was curious. It was the end of September, and this was the grape harvest. Nicolo Vineyards covered acres of rolling hills, and the Constantinou family, three generations of them, joined together with neighbours and friends to harvest the grapes that would then be turned into their Cypriot wine. George had described it as a time of hard work, laughter and fun, and he thought she would enjoy it.

The grapes had to be harvested at just the correct moment, and it needed to be done quickly. That took the entire family to accomplish, and another set of hands would be welcomed, British or not, George had told her. She wore a blue work shirt, her jeans, second-hand trainers, and a floppy hat as she climbed into George's truck, ready to toil in the fields on a very hot day.

There was little preamble to the work, which started very early. She worked alongside George all day, and she had to admit, although strenuous, it was very enjoyable. Cursory introductions were made to those they shared their row with, but she soon felt at home, and among them all there was a natural joy in the land and its abundance.

With a minimum of patiently imparted instruction, she learned to use the curved-blade knife that hooked around the vines and freed the clusters of rich, bursting grapes. As she tossed her filled bucket into the passing wagons, she wondered if she would drink this Cabernet one day, and her participation in the cycle pleased her.

The morning went by rapidly, and they stopped to join together under the shade of a trellis at a huge wooden table groaning with every delightful indigenous food Ruth could imagine. Olives of every shape and size, feta cheese, freshly-baked breads, garlic-cucumber yogurt, fish roe salad, roasted eggplant, succulent watermelon, honeydew, tomatoes, green peppers, cabbage-carrot salad, wild greens, rice, oven roasted potatoes, grilled mackerel, lamb, and sausages. Ruth lost count of the dishes, and the addition of red summer wine and the ever-present coffee left everyone happily chattering, and then dozing, until the strongest heat of the day had subsided.

Ruth was ashamed to admit she had overestimated her importance on this busy day. Not only did no one have the time to be nosy about her personal life, they really seemed not to have the inclination. She liked everyone, and if her accent was noticed, it wasn't commented on.

The one she was most drawn to was George's sister, Christina, a large, warm woman with a great love of her two sons, one daughter, and her nephew Nico. Christina seemed to be everywhere. She cooked, she worried that everyone had enough, and when first introduced to Ruth, she enveloped her in a huge hug, thanking her profusely for being a part of the day. When Christina finally rested, fanning herself over a glass of red wine, she sat next to Ruth under the trellis, and they talked.

Christina talked of her love of family, the energy and creativity of her children, and her pride in her brother. Ruth talked of the hospital, of her impressions of Cyprus, and even generally of Paris, which fascinated Christina. Never prying, always allowing, Christina made Ruth feel safe, and she realised there was much to be talked about between two women that held no danger even for Ruth in her exile.

At about three, they found themselves back in the vineyard where they remained until eight. Exhausted and satisfied, they gravitated to their homes after the work was finished. George said there had been over seventy people, with the extended family and friends, and no money had changed hands. It was understood that the work, the company and the food was the payment.

That, and the first bottles of wine that came from this day, which would be delivered to all participants with great ceremony and thanks. In a little less than a year, George said, there would be a knock on Ruth's door. It was a Constantinou ritual, and Ruth was now a part of it.

Ruth had spent almost the entire day in happiness, not crying, and not thinking morosely about Harry. When she talked to Christina, her love for Harry had informed almost everything she had said, but she hadn't felt sad about it. As she said goodbye to George at her door, Ruth was so filled with the joy of the day that she had spontaneously given him a friendly hug and a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek to say thank you for including her.

She immediately regretted it. His eyes held hers, and without warning, he leant down and kissed her full on the lips. She pulled away in surprise, putting as much distance between them as was possible in the doorway, and he shook his head, looking down, saying, "Sorry, oh, I'm so sorry ... I couldn't ... I shouldn't have ... I..." He took in a deep breath and stepped back, finally meeting her eyes, and seeing the hurt there.

Her eyes were beginning to fill, as she said, "I thought you understood."

"I do, but ... " George said. Finally, in frustration, he added, "I'm falling in love with you." Ruth was frozen in the doorway, and George sighed. "I can't help it. I've tried. I'm sorry."

Ruth saw the look in his eyes, and she recognised it from her own mirror. The pain of love with no outlet, no place to express itself. That she should cause pain to someone as kind as George Constantinou was almost more than she could bear, and the tears spilled over. "No, I'm sorry. I should have seen it. I'm sorry."

He longed to reach out to her, to comfort her, to hold her, but he knew that wasn't what she wanted. So he stood and watched, helplessly, as she cried. Ruth leant against the door, her eyes closed, and cried on a day she didn't think would hold tears.

"Faith," he spoke softly to her, willing his hands into his pockets to keep them still. Softer still, he said, "Faith Ruth." She looked up at him. "If I can't have you, and I can see that clearly now, I want your friendship. Please accept my apology, and my promise that this will never happen again unless you want it. I promise you that."

He was so earnest, his words so heartfelt, that she wondered if, in another world, she might be able to love him. What she had said to Harry was completely true, about the glass being too full to hold more. There was no room in her heart for George, but her heart did go out to him as a friend. She would feel his absence if she were to lose his friendship, and she didn't have the luxury of giving up friends in this new place, and in her state of mind.

She controlled her tears and looked at him, frowning, "You're a good friend, George. I don't want to lose that. Can you, really?"

He stood a little taller, and she could see how much he regretted that they were having this conversation. He looked fearful about how this would change things, but angry with himself more than anything else. "Yes. I'm a strong person." His voice softened, "It was a wonderful day, and I got carried away. It won't happen again, Faith. I won't let it." She saw his jaw set, the muscles there contracting, relaxing, contracting again.

Suddenly, Ruth was so bone-tired that she found she was leaning on the door jamb for support. "Let's talk about it tomorrow? Thank you for including me today. It was a wonderful day, George, really. Tomorrow is Sunday. We'll read our papers and talk tomorrow, yes?"

Some of the fear went out of George's eyes. "Yes. Tomorrow. Same time?" Ruth nodded. "Good night, Ruth." It was the first time he had called her that, and they were both surprised. He shrugged, again apologetic. "It's the name I use in my head. It feels more like your name than Faith. Is it all right if I call you Ruth?"

The name washed over her, and she basked in the comfort of hearing it again. She said, "Yes. Call me Ruth. I'll see you tomorrow."

She closed the door and leant against it, exhausted. She could still feel the scratch of his beard and the pressure of his lips on hers. She wasn't repulsed by him, but the only description that came to mind was _not Harry_. Putting her hand up to her lips, she pressed against it, remembering again the feel of Harry's mouth on hers. The soft yielding, the warmth, the fullness of Harry's lips compared to the thin, slightly hard feel of George's. The softness of his beard compared to the roughness of George's. The sharp contours of George's face, compared to Harry's gentle, smooth ones.

_Nothing will ever compare_. The tears started again, as Ruth realised she was lost, and probably forever. No one would ever compare to Harry. And if she could never have Harry again, she was doomed to a life of meagre comparisons, men that wouldn't measure up, and a life of wanting more.

Knowing that a major cry was on the way, Ruth hurried up to her flat. First she cried, and then she got angry. Despite an exhausted body that was begging for a bath, she opened her laptop.

_Harry,_

_What have you done to me? Why did you give me your love if you were only going to take it away? Don't you see that you've ruined me for anyone else, for life?_

Still crying, sniffling, Ruth stopped. The dilemma of writing coded letters is that it takes so long to do the coding that you have to really want very much to say what you write. She re-read it, and slowly moved the cursor in reverse, until she had erased everything except for his name. Then she added an endearment as her heart softened. She allowed a faint sob to escape with a sigh as she went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of Nicolo Cabernet.

Ruth had been in Polis for four months now. For four months, she hadn't had any contact with Harry, unless she counted Martin Wingate's cold email back to her. She could forget about him for short periods of time, with a particularly absorbing challenge at work, or occasionally when watching a film, as long as its subject wasn't love.

But as she swam, when she was alone in her flat, even during conversations with George, he was standing off to the side of her thoughts ... _Harry would think, Harry said once, Harry would like that ..._ as if he were the proverbial Greek chorus of her life. She didn't want to be angry with him, but she thought that if he were going to be so bloody _present_ in her life, the least he could do was actually be _present_.

She surprised herself by finishing the glass of wine remarkably quickly. _This has to stop_, she thought, pouring another. _But not tonight_. As she poured, she wondered idly who had picked the grapes that made this wine. It had been a year ago, long before Cyprus had even been in her mind. A year ago, she was on the Grid, in love with Harry from afar. After she lied to Angela Wells, but before the threats to the Prime Minister's son. A world away, a lifetime away. She began to pace.

Was she happy then? Ruth thought so. She'd wanted Harry, especially after her encounter with Angela Wells on that night that changed so many things. That night she had felt the real power, the exhilaration, and the shame of being a spook. On that night he had nearly brushed her face with his lips in the hallway.

That night had changed everything, really. She remembered sitting with him in a meeting a month later, right after Adam came back from hospital. She'd noticed that he either sat across from her or next to her now, almost every time they all met. She'd reached for a file, and their legs had touched. It was only for a few seconds, but instead of apologising or moving away, they'd stayed there and felt the contact. A moment later, he'd looked at her, and there was something in his eyes, something intimate, wanting, so personal. And then it was gone.

Ruth had often wondered, since Cotterdam, if that relationship was sustainable. If they could still be there, wanting, but at least together. She wondered if, in their desire for each other, they'd flown, like Icarus, too close to the sun. But like Icarus, they'd been in a prison of sorts, and maybe the prospect of losing it all was worth the flight.

The wine had achieved Ruth's aim now, and she'd calmed. Her anger and confusion just faintly numbed, she could think. It was that kiss from George that had brought so much to the surface. She'd been living here on Cyprus in a sort of holding pattern, waiting, she thought, but for what? For Harry to show up, for an email to appear in the _l'Alcove_ mailbox that she still checked, for some indication that there was a future for them. Hadn't his last letter well and truly put a full stop on any of that?

Ruth sat down again at the computer. She had to make sense of this. She knew she wouldn't be sending this letter anywhere, that she would code it and put it in the folder that now held many such letters, but she knew it would be the only way to round up her thoughts. She took another long swallow of the heady red wine, and began to type.

_Dear Harry,_

_I've not spoken to you in over four months. One hundred and thirty days. I've no idea what you're thinking, what you're feeling, if you have any plans to be with me, or if you've forgotten me altogether. I have a vague notion that you've separated from me completely because you love me, but even that idea has begun to fray a bit at the edges._

_I begged you to answer me, and you didn't. Is this a test? If it is, which kind of test? _

_A test of my patience, my steadfast adherence to us, to what we signify, even if I never see or hear from you again? I wonder if I am expected to become Inessa, chaste, living in the past, grabbing the sleeves of strangers so that they can hear of a love that I once had, long ago. But you haven't died, this is a choice you're making. Perhaps the reasons are good, but I'm not privy to them, and they leave me no less alone._

_Or is this a test of my love of life, my ability to reinvent myself, to move on? Again?_

_An offer of love has been made to me by a very nice man, and I've rejected him. Not because he's lacking in any way, really, but because he's not you. And I see a parade of men who are not you, stretching out into my future._

_He kissed me, Harry, and all I can think of are your lips. How could anyone compare to them? I've kissed them so many times that I can conjure them now as I sit here, in absolute detail. As I can conjure your mind, and your body, and your inspired, intuitive touch._

_I wonder how I will ever make love again. Won't there always be three of us in the bed? You and I, and the poor man I compare to you? _

_I wish I knew your mind right now. If you're thinking that this is only for a time, please don't be too long, Harry. You see, now I've known love. When I met you, I was somewhat resigned to never finding it, but now that I have, I find I don't want to be alone. I get lonelier than I used to, I feel the emptiness of my bed more deeply. Solitary meals hold less charm, and I have a need for conversation. I've found a friend here who fills some of those needs for me, but he wants more. I don't fool myself into thinking it will be the last time that happens, and I feel guilty using him. He wants my heart, but it's completely yours._

_I'm feeling very confused, and must fall back on the detachment of my analyst skills. There are really only four ways this can all turn out: _

_1. You write/call/show up on my doorstep (In case you're wondering, this is my favourite outcome), and,_

_------ a. Tell me it's all blown over and you're taking me back to England. We kiss._

_------ b. Tell me it's all still a shambles, but you don't care because we're running away together. Ditto the kiss._

_2. I never hear from you again (This one clutches at my heart and makes it hard for me to breathe), and,_

_------ a. I wear the widow's weeds and join Inessa in the Square. I tell everyone, ad infinitum, what a wonderful kisser you were._

_------ b. I lower my expectations and find a nice man to spend the rest of my life with. His kisses never measure up to yours, but I make do._

_And right now, "2b" is what I wrestle with. If I do lower my life's expectations, I know that George, or someone like him, will be there. He's a nice man, good to the core. I enjoy his mind, his heart is true, but best of all, he's simple to be with. Uncomplicated. He already has a son, and wants no more children. He's solid, and steady, and there's something to be said for that._

_But I can't stop comparing. I stand the two of you across from me in my mind. If I close my eyes, I can feel your heat even without seeing you. Bright, incandescent, passionate, all yellows and oranges and reds, and yes, some hot blue in the centre of the flame, at your heart. Your temper and emotions flaring. Hungry in your desire and your deep love for me. Your work and your life dramatic and immediate. Rainbows of colours, explosions. And then, your colours go to cool, peaceful blue, Harry blue, warm, soft, so full of love for me when we lie holding each other, not talking, just 'being' together._

_George is the white, grey, tan and adobe colours of the buildings here, some green from the vineyards, the brown of the earth, neutral tones. I fight to stop myself before I say predictable, boring, banal, but after the drama of this year, that holds its attractions as well. He wouldn't ask much of me, I suspect. _

_With George, I might be able to float on that river we talk about, even knowing it was the wrong river, with only the memories of the other one, the exciting one. The word elegant comes to mind, Harry. There is an elegance to this life, the orderly movement from one thing to the next, without much thought required._

_I know that today I can't make that choice. I still want to hold out for all of your colours. But in two months, or three, or four, will I feel the same? I've read enough heartbroken, turgid literature to know that time passes, that people give up on perfection in favour of a lesser, more calm future. Will I move the measure back to more reasonable proportions, knowing that what you and I had is not something anyone gets twice?_

_Oh, I've given myself a long night of coding. I shudder to think how many glasses of wine I will drink. I can't go on like this, my love. I'm in the half-life we talked about, and it's wearing me out. I stand suspended, barely touching your fingertips, but another strong hand has been reached out to me. I said no tonight, but I fear the possibility that the answer may not always be no. That makes me feel guilty and untrue to you, and that's not fair._

_Please send me a sign. We've always been connected in that way. Communicate with me, Harry. Help me to know what to do. _

_I love you so dearly, and I miss you,_

_Ruth_

It was late, but Ruth did feel just a little better. As she poured her third, and what she promised herself would be her last, glass of wine, she thought of the bottle that would arrive for her in a year. The bottle that was made with the grapes that she had picked today.

A simple life, an orderly life, a life lived on the land, with the love of family around her, the constancy of a man who clearly adored her. Even his name, Constantinou. Constant in you. She wasn't there yet, but for the first time, Ruth allowed that someday she could be.

With a sigh, Ruth opened her copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ and began to type again.

* * *

"Come in." Harry stepped through the richly panelled door to the Home Secretary's office. His outstretched hand was taken warmly by Nicholas Blake. "Harry, thanks for coming."

"You said it was important, Home Secretary." Harry sat as Blake poured two fingers of scotch into the cut crystal glass. He reached out and gratefully took it. It had been a very long day.

Harry looked expectantly across the desk, waiting to hear what had been so important that he had been summoned at seven in the evening. The Home Secretary seemed nervous, almost embarrassed. Harry wondered for a fleeting moment if he was being sacked.

Blake finally spoke. "So, what's going on, Harry? What are you working on?" He was obviously stalling, and Harry curbed his curiosity for the time being.

"It's very tense with the Russians, Home Secretary. They've got a new man in London, Arkady Kachimov, and I'm in negotiations with him to make a trade for one of our officers. He's a hard one to read." Harry took another sip. "If they'd simply leave someone in England long enough for us to establish a relationship, things could get better ... "

"Hmm," Blake said. Harry frowned slightly. The Home Secretary was distracted, and didn't seem to be listening. Stopping, Harry gave him a hint of a smile, and waited to find out what this was really about. It didn't take long.

"Harry, are you free on Saturday night?"

The question took him so by surprise, that Harry actually laughed just a bit before he collected himself and said, "I believe so. Why do you ask?"

Now Nicholas Blake's embarrassment was evident. He couldn't even meet Harry's eyes. He sighed, and spoke to his glass. "My ... my ... " he finally spit it out in resignation, quickly. "My sister Rebecca is in town this week. She's going through a nasty divorce, we have tickets for the opening of _La Boheme_, and Charlotte and I were wondering if you would be willing to escort Rebecca for the evening."

Harry couldn't have been more astonished. His mouth opened and closed more than once, and if he could have run from the room, he would. At this moment, he thought the prospect of this conversation was more frightening than the Russians.

But the Home Secretary had more to say. He was saying it rapidly, and with some extra colour in his cheeks. "I know this is asking a lot, but we've known each other a long time, and it would be a personal favour to me." He shook his head. "Everyone I know is bloody married, or with someone, and this came up suddenly, and I was hoping that you could help me out."

At last, he met Harry's eyes with an apology in his own. "Charlotte wouldn't let me rest until I asked you. Honestly." He gazed up at the ceiling, and finally sighed and took a long swallow of his drink.

Harry drained his glass and placed it on the desk. Blake refilled it, along with his own. Harry thought the words "awkward silence" didn't begin to describe the feeling in the room. Blake had said, _Everyone I know is bloody married, or with someone_, and Harry's only thought had been, _As am I. I am married, I am with someone, whether she's here or not. _

He continued to think it through, as the silence lengthened a bit. But no matter how uncomfortable this made Harry, no matter how many different ways he wanted to say no, he knew the only possible answer was yes. Nicholas Blake was asking a favour of him, one that seemed on its surface to be relatively harmless. It was only one evening, after all. It could be nothing more than that, because Harry's heart was utterly unavailable.

After another swallow for courage, Harry looked him right in the eye. "Of course, Home Secretary. What time shall I meet you?"

Blake released a long, deep sigh. "Christ, thank you, Harry. I owe you one." He raised his glass and smiled painfully. "A big one."

* * *

It was a beautiful, late October Cyprus day. Not too hot, and Ruth and George had found their favourite table, just by the fountain, to read their papers.

Ruth poured another cup of coffee out for both of them. George was speaking animatedly, using his spoon for emphasis, "They've earned that power, Ruth, by virtue of their hard work and initiative. These aren't people who inherited money, they earned it."

Ruth shook her head, "But how is it fair, that these men, _men_ mind you," she said, challenging him, "have the right to influence world events simply because of how rich they are? Doesn't their wealth, by its nature, make them unfit for that? They've lost touch with reality."

George smiled at her. Sunday was his favourite day of the week, and this was his favourite time on Sunday. He was so grateful that his time with Ruth hadn't been affected by his impulsiveness on the night of the harvest. It had taken three Sundays for the discomfort of that kiss to truly disappear, but now it had, finally. Ruth had started to trust him again, and their friendship seemed to be deepening. It was enough for him. It had to be enough.

Whatever she'd gone through, whoever this man was that she pined for, the man who had so foolishly let her go, it didn't matter. George knew now that he was completely in love with her, and he was willing to wait until she was ready to move on to a new life. He had her every Sunday morning, and it usually stretched into lunch. He saw her every day at work, and just last week, she had said yes to a casual dinner in the Square. Wanting her to be completely comfortable, he had stood far away from her as he left her at her door at the end of the evening.

Christina wanted him to bring Ruth to dinner at the vineyard house, but George would wait to ask. He had a firm hold now on his earlier desire to rush things. Ruth was a like an injured animal, tentative, guarded. She had secrets, and he would let her keep them as long as she felt necessary, forever if need be. He wanted only to be with her, and he was with her today.

And this morning, she was speaking in her usual impassioned way. "They have no idea what the lives of ordinary people are. And they've lost their sense of right and wrong. _Because_ of all that money."

George had known what her reaction would be, in fact, he had baited her with the article they'd just read. The writer expressed a suspicion that there was a very powerful, very rich group of men directing public policy in numerous countries. Ruth's passion was a beautiful thing to watch.

He smiled at her. "Calm down, Ruth, or you're going to need medical attention."

She laughed. "Good thing I know a doctor, then." She took a sip of the hot coffee, and looked back at him, smiling, "You get me going on the news on purpose, don't you?"

George was unapologetic. "Yes. It's most entertaining."

She tilted her head at him. "Well, then I'm going to read something that can't possibly affect me, just to spite you." She turned to the Court & Social pages, "We'll see what people are wearing these days ..."

She stopped suddenly. There in brilliant colour were a number of photos of couples, of groups of people, all dressed beautifully for the opening night at the opera. In among those photos was one of Nicholas and Charlotte Blake, a woman she didn't recognise, and Harry. In a tuxedo.

The breath was knocked out of her and for a moment everything but that photo disappeared. The people in the Square, the sound of their talking, even George, who was actually becoming slightly concerned for her state of health. All disappeared.

"Ruth? What is it?"

_Harry_. Cripes, he looked handsome. And a very beautiful woman, probably late forties, in a blue satin dress. _Blue_.

The shock subsided, and Ruth heard the sounds around her return, but intermittently, beating along with her heart, the way sounds do when you push yourself too hard. She thought she might actually lose consciousness for a moment, but then she rallied.

And after the shock came the hurt. A pain that was so layered it almost couldn't be described. London, a beautiful woman, the opera, somewhere Harry and Ruth could never go together. She saw his aristocratic bearing, how gently the woman laid her hand on his arm, not a smile, per se, but a comfort standing there, a sameness to them. They looked good together. She wore blue. Midnight blue. _Oh, God, my heart hurts_.

All the pieces tumbled before her. The Home Secretary and his wife, a double date, the eminence of Harry's job, his title, his place in society. _Sir Harry Pearce_, the caption said, _and Mrs Rebecca Doyle_. Rebecca was her name. Mrs. Divorced? Did he take her hand when she stepped from the car, did they talk amiably about the opera, did he kiss her goodnight? First shock, then hurt, then jealousy. Ruth felt gripped by it.

But then Ruth moved closer. She looked into Harry's eyes, the eyes she knew so well. There was something missing. He had a vacant look that she'd never seen before. He was distant, removed, almost cold. It was the look she'd heard Zoe and Danny talk about, a look Sam had mentioned, the look that told them there was to be no more discussion. Ruth realised she had never seen that look because he'd only looked at her with his heart engaged.

_He doesn't want to be there. His heart's not in it._ And Ruth sighed, feeling her breath come back. _But he's there, and I'm here, so far away. _And it occurred to Ruth that she might not be the only one wondering about how long she could wait.

Ruth looked over at George, and saw the concern in his eyes. She said, "I'm fine, really." She took a sip of her coffee to cover the fact that she was very far from fine. "Just give me a moment, will you?" George nodded, but his eyes gravitated toward the paper, to see what had caused this change. Ruth deliberately folded the pages and put her hands on them, looking off to the people wandering the Square.

_I asked for a sign_. This was certainly a sign, but what did it mean? Getting hold of herself, she acknowledged that she was currently sitting with a man having coffee, a man she saw regularly. Ruth wondered what Harry would think of that. Was Harry escorting another woman to the opera any more of a betrayal than the many hours she had spent with George?

Ruth wanted very much to open the paper again and look at Harry, but George's nearness stopped her. She would have to work this through later, when she was alone. She turned and forced a cheerful smile at George. "Thanks. Better now. Just saw an old friend. A bit of a shock. So, what were we talking about? Rich men, I think."

She opened the paper to the second page, and George knew without a doubt that the subject was closed. A little later, Ruth begged off his offer of lunch. After she left the table, George spent a good deal of time with his own paper, studying the faces on the page that had so affected her. He felt certain that somewhere in these pictures was the man that Ruth still loved.

Back in her flat, Ruth was doing the same, lying on her bed, but she only looked at one face on the page. She was thinking that in all the time they'd known each other, she and Harry had never had a photo taken together. She wished now that she could see what his eyes would look like standing next to her in that blue satin dress.

She thought his eyes would be smiling.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT**

* * *

_November 1_

_My dearest Ruth,_

_Today is my birthday, and it's very early in the morning. This year, my birthday happens to be on a Saturday, and the world has been quiet of late, so I'm allowing myself a bit of a holiday. I will say my good morning to you here, and then I'll go to Bath. Just for one night, as a birthday present to myself. _

_I'll finally do what I pretended to do that night that I showed up on your doorstep in Paris at the Hotel Britannique. I'll stroll the Crescent, eat dinner at the Moon and Sixpence, and sleep in our room. I wish that I was planning to play the same trick on you and appear at your door on Cyprus, but it's not to be, my love._

_I feel that every day we spend apart is a day that you're safer, a day that the people who wanted to harm you either forget, or disappear, or die the deaths they deserve, until there's no one left to hurt you. Our circle, the ones who know that you still live, is small here. Malcolm, Adam, Tom, Christine, Isabelle and myself. Of those, only Malcolm, Adam and I know where you are. But we all love you, and have denied ourselves the joy of your company to keep you safe._

_And today, my precious Ruth, I am loving you very much. I seem to have turned a corner of sorts, or perhaps it's just that the pain of having you so far away has transformed from always being a sharp stab into a diffused, familiar type of ache most of the time. In a strange way, the pain has become a friend, because it reminds me of how much I continue to love you. I kissed you goodbye on the 20__th__ of May, a Tuesday, and I can still feel your lips on mine. Over five months apart, my Ruth, and you haven't been out of my thoughts in all of that time. _

_So going to Bath feels like a sort of renewal of vows, a remembrance of us, a recommitting of who we are together. You'll notice I didn't say who we _were_. Malcolm's story of his Sarah, the one I told you of in a letter a while ago, seems to have had the desired effect. You and I may be far apart, but we're still together. I know it because you continue to fill my heart. _

_So I carry on hoping that the world will turn enough times that we'll find our way back to each other. A feeling is taking up residence in me, an image of us growing old together. It sits alongside my dream, the one I had of you long ago, and both visions are persistent. _

_It's hope, Ruth. As you know, it hasn't been a strong characteristic of my life, but to my eternal surprise, hope seems to be following me these days._

_On November 1__st__ of last year, if you had asked me what I would be doing or thinking on this day, my guess would have been far wide of the mark, hardly on the same continent. I would have thought my heart would still be locked up tightly, safe in the cavity of my chest, protected, untouched by another human being. _

_I used to take it out and look at it once in a while, but only in private. And I cried before I met you, but even that was done with an element of control. With you there has been an abandon, a sort of revelling in the glory of feeling things. I'm not saying this very well, but it's because I feel so much, that I find it hard to be articulate. Even these letters are proof of my newfound ability, stumbling though they may be, to express my emotions. I suppose what I'm saying is that I've changed from the man who had a birthday last year. _

_The man who sits here is a better man, a more complete man, a better friend. I'm a more compassionate supervisor, still unyielding when necessary, still the bastard when I have to be, but there are more layers to me. When a decision needs to be made, I listen more for the questions to be answered, and I answer more often with my heart than I did before._

_And if I am so different today than I was a year ago, the question is begged: where will I be a year from now? If birthday wishes come true, then I'll be in your arms, here on the sofa, in front of a fire, celebrating my birthday with my four favourite women: Scarlet, Fidget, Phoebe, and you, my dearest Ruth. What a warm picture that presents for my future. I'll hold onto it until it's real._

_But, Christ, I miss you, and here it comes again, another sharp stab. I just have to close my eyes and wait until it passes._

_Do you remember the small framed photograph I stole from you, the one of Ruth the Ice Princess amongst the falling snow? On our night at the safe house, you wrote "I love you" on the back of it. I've taken it out of your frame and put it into one of those clear ones so that I can see both sides. It sits quietly and unobtrusively on a shelf between books, and I look at it now from where I sit. Today I wished to see your contagious smile, but tomorrow I may need to see your words. Either way, you continue to help me through my days and nights, my Ruth._

_And now I'll close this, and get on my way to Bath. I look forward to this holiday for many reasons, but in part because I have a very busy week coming up. We've finally reached terms for the exchange of our officer, and I rejoice in bringing Lucas back home. He was one of our best men before he was captured, somewhat fearless, very intelligent and dedicated. If he's still in one piece, we could use him on the Grid. The exchange will happen a week from tonight, on Saturday, and the next day is Remembrance Sunday, which, as you know, is always a day of no little worry for me. _

_It's such a large target, that day, so enticing for those who wish to make a statement. You would be working on our Threat Report, my love, in your usual thorough and intuitive way. But today, I would convince you to lay it down and come away with me. We would be the banker and the shopgirl again, with no thoughts about terror for a day and a night._

_You'll be there in Bath with me in any case, my Ruth. You're always with me. On this birthday, I pledge my love to you again with my whole heart. I hope you're safe, and warm, and that kind people are caring for you. _

_And as I say that, a fresh pain occurs. I hope they're caring for you, but not too much. Not just one person, too much. Everything I said in Paris that day, about wanting you to move on? I realise now that it wasn't entirely true. The thought of you with another man, of him touching you, kissing you ... it makes me just a bit light-headed, actually, and I can feel my chest tightening. I can't think about it. And it's my birthday, so I won't. I'm compartmentalising again. It's my gift._

_So come, get in the car, and we'll go. I love our talks in the car. We're both captive there, focused only on each other, the road, and the lovely place we're headed. _

_But before we go, I have one request. Your ring and necklace are upstairs in a heart-shaped box I found amongst your things at your house. The box sits by the side of the bed, on your side. Please go put them on, my Ruth, and then we'll go._

_Yours always and ever,_

_Harry_

* * *

Some days were harder than others. And some days Ruth just gave up and thought about Harry. She had searched for metaphors to describe the struggle, but still came up short. It was like fighting off an impending cold, holding the wolves at bay, trying not to fall asleep during a good film – something that she didn't want to happen, but she knew in her heart would happen sooner or later, no matter how hard she tried to prevent it. Not thinking about Harry was an exhausting process, frankly.

She'd be moving calmly through her life, and suddenly, there was Harry, full in front of her. She'd push him away, and then a minute, or an hour later, or a couple of hours, there he was again. Some days she was angry with him, some days she was just so sad that she cried at nothing. Some days she got through with a combination of busyness and friendship and sheer strength of will. And some days, like this one, she just gave in.

Today was Harry's birthday, and rather than fight it, Ruth thought she would try a different tack. Total submission. She would spend the day with him, and maybe he would be appeased and leave her alone for a time afterwards. Today, thoughts of him wouldn't be her adversaries. She would embrace them, and afterwards, she would try again to move on. Rather like an indulgence in the middle of a diet. Tomorrow would be another day.

Ruth ran her hand under the tap to check the temperature of the water, and then went to the cabinet. She pulled out the sandalwood soap, still square, but with edges slightly rounded from the warmth of her skin, from the countless times she had rubbed it just behind her ears or on her wrists. After bringing it to her nose, as she always did when she picked it up, she set it gently by the tub. Just the smell of it caused the tears to prick at the back of her eyes. Ruth sighed and shook them off. _If I start with that now, this is going to be a very long day._

The soap was like a piece of him. It was the only thing she had, other than his shirt, that had a direct connection to Harry. It had never touched water, and today, instead of worrying about how long she could make the soap last, Ruth had decided to luxuriate in it, to allow the steam to rise in billows of sandalwood and surround herself with him. Sweet torture.

After her bath, she thought she might ride the Vespa to the Hotel Anassa. She would walk on the beach and then take the path on the Akamas Peninsula to the waterfall and the Bath of Aphrodite. Ruth wanted to have a little chat with the Goddess, as she was now one of the star-crossed lovers in Aphrodite's care. It never hurt to go to the source, and Ruth was nothing if not practical. She wasn't quite sure what she would say to her. Ask for a miracle, perhaps, or just peace.

She felt the water in the bath, and it was perfect. Ruth let her robe drop to the floor and stepped in. Baths always reminded her of Harry now, even though she had taken thousands of them before she'd ever met him. But from the moment she'd first spoken of a bath to him at Havensworth, as he sat at the bar downstairs, she had never stepped into the bath without thinking of him.

It was already a hot day today, but Ruth didn't care as she slipped into the steaming water. She picked up the soap and began to roll it between her hands under the still-running tap, and sighed as the delicious aroma of Harry began to fill the small room. It washed extravagantly over her, reminding her of making love with him, when the scent would envelop her as it intensified with the heat from his body.

How many times had they made love? She tried to remember. Bath, Harry's house, the Sunstrike safe house, the Hotel Britannique, Polis, Baghdad, her Paris flat, the hotel in Calais, and finally, back at Harry's house. Their house, the one they dreamt of sharing together. She had appreciated every single time, and had never taken it for granted. She and Harry never allowed themselves to forget how easily it could be taken away from them. And in the end, it was.

Harry's birthday. Ruth had worked through every possibility of sending him a gift. Her first thought had been to email Malcolm asking him to buy something lavender-scented to put on Harry's desk. Just the thought of Malcolm searching for the appropriate item, and _then_ his trying to explain it, had made Ruth smile. Or perhaps a repeat of her gift a couple of years ago. Good scotch, four bottles, with R, U, T, H on them. Or maybe she could send a request for something to Isabelle through _l'Alcove_'s website, a book perhaps, mailed from Paris.

Even just a note saying _I love you_, or _Je t'aime_, or _Se agapó__._

In the end though, she'd done nothing. Ruth knew that if this separation was about keeping her safe, anything she sent to Harry would be less of a gift and more of a worry to him. So today she would do what they had always done so well, she would communicate with him without speech, or paper, or anything of the material world. She would wish him a happy birthday with her heart. And Ruth wanted so much to do it without being sad. She wondered if she would ever be able to fully rejoice in who they were together, without wishing the ending could have been different. Not today, but perhaps someday.

She missed him so deeply, but Ruth had to admit she felt safe. Truly safe, for the first time in a long time. That feeling was bringing her closer to understanding what Harry had done in abandoning her completely the way he did. He had given her up so that she could live in peace. And although it was hard for her, in her best moments, Ruth knew that it showed the depth of his love.

Ruth now understood adrenaline withdrawal in a whole new way. With the perspective of just over five months and her utter retreat from the business of spying , she had gradually been able to admit fully to herself how very terrifying those last few days in Paris had been. Actually, the fear had been there from the time she was taken through the pods by Mace's men. She'd managed her way through it with a combination of adrenaline and bravado, but in Polis, none of that was necessary.

Ruth leant back, placing the slightly smaller bar of soap carefully on the dish next to her. She closed her eyes and she was back in his arms. She felt him there, the warmth of his skin, his touch strong, sure and gentle. For a time, she let him surround her as she let go and allowed the tears to slide down her cheeks, warm water into warm water. _Oh, Harry, why couldn't it have been different? Why can't you be here now?_

She opened her eyes, and there he was, across from her, just as he had been in Bath. The water too high, both of them laughing, and Harry whispering, "Don't move." Ruth smiled at him, even as her tears continued, the memory swelling in her heart.

She said, aloud, "Happy birthday, Harry. I love you."

"I love you, too, my Ruth. Now shhhhhh."

Then Ruth closed her eyes again, and remembered.

* * *

Harry was lost in thought. His gloved hand to his mouth, he kept his eyes down. His years of training were clearly light years beyond Ben Caplan's. The younger man's inexperience showed every time he looked up and squirmed at the slightest sound.

This was the moment when Harry would find out if all of the hours of negotiations were to pay off. In Bexley Industrial Park, deserted, dark, quiet, he and Ben sat in the car with one of the top Russian agents in London. At least he used to be. The man had been caught accessing confidential files from the British Power Consortium, looking for information regarding a substantial oil supply deal between the UK and Russia. The ensuing embarrassment of the Russian government was leverage enough to get Lucas North back.

At least that's what Harry hoped. Twin lights shone in the distance, and Harry finally looked up and took his hand from his mouth. Harry turned to the man in the rear seat and spoke ominously low. "If this isn't him, Edward, it'll be the shortest walk you ever took."

The black Lexus drove slowly toward them until its lights were trained on Harry's car about ten metres away, and everyone stepped out into the chilly night. Harry had spoken with Arkady Kachimov and had seen his photo, and he now saw him remove the hood from the prisoner's head.

Harry gave an imperceptible sigh of relief as he saw that it was, indeed, Lucas North. Shaky, stumbling, the worse for wear, but definitely Lucas. Harry motioned the Russian agent from behind him, and he started to walk. Lucas did the same. They crossed in the middle, and Harry put his arm out to greet Lucas as the space between them closed. "Hi, Harry," Lucas said, his voice rough.

"Welcome home, Lucas. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Good. Cold." Harry made sure Ben was getting him safely into the car, and then he turned and walked to Kachimov, who now stood in the middle of the light from the headlamps. Finally, a face to match to the file photographs and the voice on the phone.

"Welcome to London, Arkady. Of course you'll be working hard to replace the spy we're sending home."

"Isn't that the dance?" Kachimov smiled at Harry, speaking as if they were old friends. "You look after Lucas, now he's home. He's weak, he's tired. You tell him, eat broccoli."

After the terrors Harry was certain Lucas had endured, this advice was more than Harry was willing to allow without a sardonic remark. "I think he's suffered enough, don't you?"

Arkady let it pass, but his voice now had a darker quality. "You know, when you sent Lucas to Moscow, he paid an appalling price. You might wish to ensure such a thing doesn't happen again in the near future."

Harry narrowed his eyes at the Russian. "Is this a message, Arkady, or merely a homily?"

Now the lightness was back. "I am making conversation, like an Englishman." He smiled again, and walked away. As he returned to the car, Harry was thinking it was probably a good idea to get Ros out of Moscow as soon as possible.

As Ben drove them back to the Grid, Harry peered at Lucas in the rear of the car. As Harry had anticipated, Lucas looked damaged, different. He'd hoped it wouldn't be the case, but he'd seen enough of officers returning from captivity to know what to expect. "How did they treat you?" he asked.

"Sometimes well, sometimes not." Harry assumed Lucas needed time before he could talk further, so he turned back to look at the road ahead. But Lucas had more to say, after a pause. "They told me I could come home if I would spy for them."

Suddenly the atmosphere in the car changed, becoming decidedly colder. Ben looked over at Harry, disconcerted. Harry frowned, and turned back to Lucas. "What did you say?"

"I said yes." Lucas was smiling. A strange smile, challenging Harry. Lucas knew well enough that after eight years in a Russian prison, he would be considered a risk to MI5. They wouldn't trust him right away, and well they shouldn't, so he thought he would get it out in the open right away. Lucas North knew that he could, in fact, be trusted, and he wanted to get back to work as soon as possible.

Harry looked at him for a time, and then smiled back, relaxing. Yes, that's what he would have said as well, if their situations had been reversed. Name the elephant in the room. After eight years of depending upon the Russians for his food, shelter, well-being, his _life_, had Lucas been turned? Harry couldn't be certain of the answer yet, and Lucas knew it. The formalities over, Lucas wanted only one thing. "Think we could stop for some fish and chips? Got a craving."

Harry had to smile. _Christ, what is it about fish and chips? _First Ruth, after months in Paris, and now Lucas, after eight years in prison. With all the fine English food there was, it seemed that fish and chips were the quintessential British culinary memory.

Harry knew just the place to get them.

* * *

Lucas would be back working for MI5 even more quickly than he thought possible. Because the extra pair of hands were needed, and Lucas was itching to do something, anything, that resembled his old life, Harry gave him clearance until midnight on Remembrance Sunday. After that, he would rest, and Harry could take the time to find out just how damaged Lucas was. For now, they needed every skilled officer they could find.

A young private home on leave, Andy Sullivan, had been abducted and thrown into a van on Friday night outside a pub after beers with his mates. The extremists who were now holding him had released a video, calling Remembrance Sunday "an affront to all the Muslim brothers and sisters murdered by infidel forces in Iraq and Afghanistan." They were threatening to behead him and post the killing on the internet if the ceremonies weren't cancelled.

Andy Sullivan wasn't only a good soldier, he was also a husband and a new father. His baby girl was only days old. Apart from the inherent horror and sorrow of the situation, this was a public relations nightmare for all concerned. Downing Street was now involved, and Harry had to find a way to defuse the situation.

Soon after Harry arrived with Lucas, he quietly gave Connie the order to pull Ros out of Moscow. Everyone was briefed on the hostage situation, and Adam and Harry went into Harry's office for a meeting with Henry Wyndham, the Prime Minister's security advisor. Wyndham's first priority was to give Harry an ultimatum of sorts. "The Prime Minister is unwilling to risk going ahead with the Remembrance Day ceremonies until we give these little jumped-up fanatics what they want."

This was Harry's greatest fear, the one he had expressed in his letter to Ruth. Britain's National Day of Remembrance was a very large target. This year, someone was aiming for it, and it was now on the verge of being cancelled.

Adam said forcefully, "We can't let that happen."

Harry's eyes moved sharply over to Adam. His senior officer seemed to be more on the edge than usual, and there was a dangerous look in his eyes. Harry had seen it before, as if Adam had decided that he would right the world's wrongs single-handedly. Harry knew that this was Adam Carter at his most vulnerable, when his judgment gave way to his passion.

Adam looked back at Harry, whose face remained impassive. The truth was, in this case, Harry happened to agree with Adam. Cancelling the ceremonies would be a terrible decision, and would leave them open to this sort of national blackmail every year. If the Security Services didn't have the power to stop threats like this, they had no power at all. As he looked into Adam's eyes, Harry could see that Adam had an idea working.

Adam asked Wyndham quickly, "What about the Queen?"

Thinking along with Adam, Harry decided this might be a workable alternative. Harry said to Wyndham, "If she knew what was going on, she would never allow the Remembrance service to be cancelled. It is Her Majesty's prerogative."

Wyndham's next point was one that Harry fully expected, and it was a good one. "And if this young soldier dies, if they cut off his head, and post a picture of it on the internet, at whom does the British public direct its wrath? At Her Majesty?" He looked at both of them, seeing that they knew the answer. "The Prime Minister is unwilling to take such a risk."

Adam said sharply, "No one's going to kill Andy Sullivan." _Oh, Christ_, Harry thought, looking over at him, _here it comes_. Adam's passion was not always his greatest asset in situations such as this. This was not a time to make empty promises. The hard truth was that they couldn't stop anyone from killing Andy Sullivan until they had significantly more information.

Wyndham asked the question that was in Harry's mind as well. "And if you're wrong? Lord knows I'm praying for this young man, but when one does the cold calculation ... "

Adam interrupted him. "There's only one calculation. Everyone matters or no one matters."

"Is this just empty rhetoric, Mr. Carter? Or is it an assurance," Wyndham turned and looked pointedly at Harry, "from Her Majesty's Security Services?"

Harry had no time to speak, before Adam interrupted him again. "It's an assurance. We have solid intelligence pointing us to where they're keeping Andy Sullivan. And a good idea of who's got him. He's going to be alright."

Harry had to will his mouth shut during this spinning of pure fiction. They had no solid intelligence, no idea who had him, and no way to know he would be alright. As Wyndham looked over at him for corroboration, Harry had two choices. To contradict Adam and give in to the ceremonies being cancelled, or to keep quiet and figure out a solution later. Harry opted for the second choice, but he wasn't happy about it.

Wyndham sighed loudly. "Then I might be able to make a quiet call to a discreet ear. I'll see to it that Her Majesty is fully appraised of the situation. Her Majesty will be at the Cenotaph in the morning, as will the Prime Minister."

Harry smiled and stood to see him out of his office. "Thank you, Henry."

The moment Wyndham was out of sight and hearing, Harry turned on Adam, highly irritated. He barely managed to curb his anger, but he spoke in soft tones. "I feel obliged to point out to you that you have absolutely no idea where Andy Sullivan is."

"I'm pretty sure he's in London." Harry gave him an incredulous look, and Adam could see it wasn't a time to be clever. He said, more seriously, "It's a start."

Harry looked up at him. "And is this the first time you've manipulated the will of Her Majesty the Queen?"

"Probably."

Harry shook his head. "Well, I hope you have a plan, because I'll be honest with you, I'm drawing a bit of a blank."

"We'll get him, Harry. We have to." He gave Harry a wide smile as he was off out the door. "Wes has a rugby game tomorrow at 1:30, and I told him I'd be there. He's counting on me. I won't miss another game."

As Harry watched him go, he heard Adam's words again. _Everyone matters or no one matters_. Harry wondered if he'd ever been that idealistic, and he wondered how long his senior officer's idealism would last. How many people have to die in front of you before you give in to the fact that you can save some, but others are beyond saving? In truth, Harry didn't think they could save Andy Sullivan, any more than they could have saved Zaf, or Danny, or Helen, or Colin. Or Fiona.

Harry was wrong. In the end, they would save Andy Sullivan. But at a very high price.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE**

* * *

"Ruth! Look at me!" Nico was scrambling out through the water with his small belly board, and he turned to her just as he caught a wave. His legs bouncing behind him, he rode it all the way in, until the board was on the sand. He stood and laughed, and held the board up for her to see.

Ruth clapped her hands together, shouting, "Good! Fantastic ride!" Ruth turned to George, who quickly looked away toward the sea. _There it was again, that look_. Ruth knew it was love, and it appeared even more often when they spent time with his son.

She couldn't ignore the looks, but she could appreciate how diligently George tried to curb them. Ruth knew he was in love with her, George knew that she knew, and they both understood it would go no further unless Ruth gave him permission. This was the promise George had made to her, and in an odd way, it was a relationship that appeared to work for both of them.

George never seemed unhappy. He seemed to be waiting, but not in a hurry, and Ruth had been as honest about her feelings as her exile allowed. She had told him nothing specific of her life before Cyprus, and he could see clearly that she was still in love with someone else. But she very much enjoyed his company, and he seemed willing to simply be with her now. She didn't know many men who would put up with that, and Ruth counted herself lucky to have found a friend like him.

George was an amazing person. She had seen him give of himself to his community, and to his family and friends, with a goodness of spirit that was rare. He was always on call for the hospital as the only Doctor of Paediatrics, and he saw children for emergencies no matter what time it was. He'd been called away from their Sunday morning paper time occasionally, and once during a dinner. He'd never complained.

George also went out into the country once a month on his own time, and at no charge, to check on the children whose parents wouldn't venture into town, those that didn't trust hospitals and the expense they brought with them. He'd asked Ruth if she wanted to join him next month on his rounds, and she'd said yes. She was looking forward to it.

And he was an exceptional father. He was raising Nico with a combination of unconditional love and good country discipline, teaching him the value of hard work and money, at the same time he allowed him the creativity and individuality to flourish.

Ruth liked Nico, as much as she liked George. He was bright, funny, outgoing, and as well-behaved as could be expected of an eight-year old with a strong and curious mind. This was only the third Sunday afternoon they'd shared, but George had talked so much of him on their Sunday mornings that she felt she knew him even before they'd spent time together. She had first seen Nico on the harvest day, when, for a time, the boy had worked alongside them, and she'd taken a liking to him straight away.

Nico made it clear that he also liked Ruth very much. She had the accent of his British mother mixed with an earthy love of life in Polis, the best of both worlds. She was warm, liberal with hugs and praise, and she made his father happy. Nico thought they felt like a family, and it was something he'd missed. He might be only eight years old, but he knew they were good together. In a way, Nico was biding his time, just as George was. He had talked with his Aunt Cristina about it, and she'd said everyone simply needed to be patient. She said love was like the grapes on the vines, and couldn't be rushed.

Ruth pulled Nico's towel from the pile behind her, as he ran up the beach toward them. She wrapped it round him, laughing, "You're so good at that. You ride them all the way in."

"You come try!" His eyes were wide, and he started to pull her down toward the water.

Ruth shook her head, "Oh, no. Not me. I'll do my laps later though, while you ride. Come eat, Nico. You need to have some lunch." She pulled sandwiches out of the basket and handed one to Nico, one to George, and took one for herself. The three of them sat eating, looking out at the waves, feeling the warm sun on their faces. As Ruth watched Nico tuck ravenously into his sandwich, her mind and her eyes wandered, as they often did, beyond the horizon, to Harry.

Before she even knew she was doing it, Ruth imagined him here with her, on the beach, relaxed, untroubled. She had seen enough of Harry that way in Bath, in Paris, and here in Polis, to make the imagining easy. But as she narrowed her eyes against the sun, she astonished herself by going a step further. She was seeing them not as just two, but three, here on the beach.

She knew it was ridiculous, considering their present situation, but she found it futile and counterproductive to fight the thoughts she had about Harry. They always came back. So she simply let her mind wander to the conversation they'd had on the terrace at the Hotel Anassa. It did slightly amaze her that she was looking at the same sea as she had on that day. So much had changed.

When Harry and Ruth had talked about the possibility of having children, it was in a different time, a different world. As she looked at Nico, Ruth felt something stirring in her, something new. And suddenly, although she knew it was impossible, or at best highly unlikely, she felt a longing to have that conversation with Harry again. The one about little Henry.

She gazed out at the other children on the beach, making sandcastles, lying on towels, sharing picnics with their families, and Ruth realised this was a very good place to raise a child. Ruth thought back to her conversations with Fiona, and none of those worries seemed to apply here. No nannies, no danger, no legends, no secrets. Just green hills and good people and time to spend together.

Life on Polis was simple, and inexpensive. Her job at the hospital took up a set amount of her time, only from about seven in the morning until one in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. The rest of her time was her own, and she had more of it here than she could remember having since she, herself, was a child. She had time now to devote to something ... _someone_ ... else. And no matter how hard she tried to push it away, Ruth realised that there was no one but Harry that she wanted to create that someone with.

Ruth frowned. But Harry wasn't here. He was far away, and his life was still a compelling, absorbing, dangerous one. Ruth sighed and looked over at George. In another time, under different circumstances, she thought she might be relatively happy with him. Never a love like hers with Harry, that wasn't possible, but there was a contentment, an ease between them. Women had settled for much less. She knew women who had, including her mother.

After Ruth's father died, her mother couldn't bear being alone, so she'd married again. Ruth had loved her father dearly, and it had taken time for her to warm to her step-father. But contrary to her lies to Angela Wells, Ruth could never remember her mother and her step-father raising their voices to each other. David Shaw was a good, kind man like George. A man who adored her mother beyond all reason. And now Ruth understood their relationship in a way she never had before. Her mother had lost the love of her life, and in the wake of her grief, she'd made a decision to settle for less than she'd had, knowing it would probably never come again.

Ruth realised that she was still staring at George, and a small frown was beginning to form above his eyes. She shrugged and smiled at him, and then looked away at the water.

She felt the hunger for Harry well up in her again, and Ruth thought suddenly that she might begin to cry, right here in the middle of a lovely picnic on the beach. _God, Harry, please do something. Anything. I'm so bloody confused. I can't make sense of what I'm thinking anymore._

Suddenly, looking off at the sea, Ruth felt a chill go down her back, despite the perfect warmth of the day. She closed her eyes, and opened them again, looking past the horizon toward England. She couldn't shake the feeling that something had happened, something appalling, to someone she cared about. _Harry_. It was all she could think, that something had happened to Harry.

Ruth looked at her watch. 1:00 p.m. exactly. Eleven o'clock in London. She closed her eyes again, and then the realisation dawned.

This was the day Harry always dreaded. Today was November 9th. Remembrance Sunday.

* * *

"He's there," Malcolm said, relief in his voice. Harry finally let out the breath he felt he'd been holding for quite some time. Ever since Adam had gotten into the car, the one that held the bomb meant to kill everyone at the eleven o'clock Remembrance Day Ceremony at the St. Augustus Memorial. Harry had told Adam that there wasn't enough time, he'd told him to ditch the car, but Adam had refused, saying that people would die if he did. When Adam wouldn't take orders, he was at his most dangerous.

Harry, Malcolm, Connie and Ben had been watching on the Grid as the car moved less than a mile to the open square where Adam would leave it to detonate harmlessly. It was finally there, but just at the moment it arrived, the tower began to chime eleven o'clock. And at that moment, in a split second, Adam's signal was lost.

Harry looked at the screen in front of Malcolm in disbelief. _Signal lost. But surely not Adam lost._ _No, not Adam_. But as the signal didn't come back, as Adam didn't answer, as the smoke from the bomb rose into the air, Harry was forced to let it sink in. He joined his arms across his chest, trying to hold off what he knew was true. He knew he'd lost another officer. Another outstanding officer.

As Harry walked back toward his office, Lucas' voice came over the speaker. "Malcolm? Malcolm? Did he make it?"

Harry closed his door. He couldn't bear to hear the answer. _Adam dead_. Harry didn't have the strength right now to offer the leadership that he knew was required for the rest of the team. He had to be alone, to find a way to live with this. He sat in the dark of his office, his arms still locked, as if he were literally holding himself together.

Slowly, he bent forward, just trying to breathe. He closed his eyes and willed back the tears he wished he could let fall. There would be time later, but not here on the Grid. Never here.

How could he continue to do this work, what was the point of it, if good, young men like Adam Carter lost their lives? How could he stay in this office, safe and secure, and keep sending people out to die? Since the day Adam had walked on to the Grid, Harry had liked him. Yes, he was hot headed, fiercely passionate, and often refused to follow Harry's orders. But, other than Ruth, Harry had trusted Adam with more than anyone else on the Grid. Adam had been as deeply committed to the Services as Harry himself. He'd been a leader, a colleague, a superb and resourceful officer, but also, a friend.

Memories of Adam began to move through Harry's mind as he sat, still doubled over. _Everyone matters, or no one matters_. Adam was the reason Ruth was still alive. _We'll find her, Harry_. His loyalty when Harry had been banished from the Grid. _They offered me your job, I told them they couldn't afford me._ Sitting at the dog track with Wes. _Oh, Christ, Wes._

_Wes has a rugby game tomorrow at 1:30, and I told him I'd be there. He's counting on me. I won't miss another game._

Harry forced himself to move. He sat up, steeling himself, willing the strength back into his body. He had to pull himself together, because there _was_ something he had to do, and it was something he could leave to no one else.

* * *

Harry walked out to the field with his heart heavier than he could ever remember. As he walked, he kept his eyes on the boys in the brightly striped jerseys, looking for one special boy. He found him quickly, with his blonde hair flying. Blond hair, just like Adam's. Blonde, like Adam's _was_.

From the day he'd first met Wesley Adam Carter, Harry felt a connection to him, something he couldn't explain, not even to Adam. It was as if Harry had known, on some level, that this time would come. That no matter how hard he tried to save Fiona and Adam, Harry would find himself taking this walk toward Wes on this day. That the two of them would be alone with this terrible outcome to work through together.

Harry stopped at the sideline and waited for Wes to see him. Harry couldn't even conjure a smile or a wave. All he could see was a little boy who would never see his father again, who would go to live with his grandparents, whose life would never be the same from this moment forward. It was taking every ounce of strength Harry had not to give in to the unfathomable sadness he was feeling, to let the tears fall. But Wes turned and saw him, and Harry took a deep breath, bracing himself for what was to come.

For a moment Wes just stood there, and then he started to walk slowly toward Harry. Bless him, Harry could see that Wes knew. He saw it, a moment of confusion crossing Wes' face, and then the understanding, the knowledge of what had probably happened. Their connection still intact, Wes read Harry's face and knew there could only be one reason for Uncle Harry to look like that.

Wes walked faster then, frowning, blinking back the tears that were starting. He walked off the field and into Harry's arms. It was all Wes could think to do for a moment, just to stand with his face warm in the wool of Harry's coat, his arms around him. Harry moved a hand up to Wes' head, and leant down to hold him closer. Harry couldn't think of what to say, so he murmured into his hair, "I'm sorry, Wes, I'm so sorry."

Still being held, Wes said, softly, the tears beginning to add a shine to his cheeks, "Is it Daddy?"

"Yes." Harry moved his arms around Wes, tighter still.

Wes knew the answer, but he had to ask, his voice breaking. "Is it ... v-very bad?"

"Yes, Wes. It's very bad." Harry felt he was a coward to let Wes deduce it all on his own, but he had no idea how to break this news to a child of ten. A child who had already lost a mother in the same mysterious way. How to explain Andy Sullivan and all the people at the ceremonies at St. Augustus, the people in the streets all the way to that deserted square, all those who would have died?

They stood that way for a long time. Harry could feel the boy shuddering, and he simply held him more tightly. Harry wanted to cry, but held himself back, wanting to be strong for this little man who was taking the news so valiantly. Finally, Wes calmed, and Harry heard his muffled voice, broken, but needing an answer.

"Was he brave?" It was what his Daddy had always said. _We can be afraid, but we should also be brave_. His Daddy always asked him to be brave, and Wes was trying very hard to be brave now.

Harry felt his throat catch, but he spoke firmly. "Yes, he was very brave. He saved the lives of lots of people."

Harry pulled away and looked into the wise, tear-filled eyes of Wes Carter, and saw a very old soul. Wes looked over at his mates, still playing, and he wiped his eyes self-consciously. Harry turned away from the field with him.

"You want to walk a bit?" Harry put a protective arm around Wes.

"Yes." His voice was small, the tears still falling, but he seemed to know, as Harry did, that this day had been coming for a long time. He'd been at boarding school now for over a year, and had seen his father often during that time, but even Wes knew that his dad had never been the same since his mum died.

As they walked in silence, Harry thought again of Wes at Paddington Station trying to get to his father, wanting to help him. Wes knew Adam needed help even then. But neither Wes nor Harry could save him, and now they needed to get through as best they could.

Wes suddenly stopped and looked up at Harry. "Where will I go for holidays?" The question was a basic one, the next step Wes needed to take to move on. It was asked so bravely by Wes, with tears still streaking his cheeks, that Harry could hold back no longer. He fell to his knees on the wet grass, feeling the cold seep in through his trousers, and pulled Wes into his arms.

Now Wes cried, really cried, and so did Harry. They stayed that way until they caught their breath, and finally, Harry said, softly, "I'm taking you to your Granny and Papa's house, Wes. You'll all decide what's best."

Wes pulled away and wiped his eyes. "Okay." Harry looked silently into Wes' face. It was blotched, red, and his eyes were so dreadfully sad. Wes nodded, and took a deep breath. He looked Harry directly in the eyes and pulled himself up straight. "Daddy would want me to be brave."

Harry took him back into his arms before heading to the car to take him to Fiona's parents' home. "He's very proud of you Wes." He held Wes again at arm's length. "I know he is."

* * *

Ros filled her glass and placed the wine bottle at the end of the bed, as she watched the car burn one more time on the news. She tried to imagine where Adam was when it happened. How much time did he need to get to safety? Was he still in the driver's seat or was he just getting out? Did he feel it or was it too fast? Did he have the same moment she had felt as Juliet sank the needle into her neck, knowing, finally, that this was it? Before she'd "died," Ros had seen a fleeting vision of Adam, a wish that she could see him again. Did Adam have the same of her?

Ros wiped a tear again from her cheek, at the same time she took a long swallow of her wine, draining the glass. She was in the St. Luke's Hotel, alone. Having just got back from Moscow early this morning, she hadn't even thought where she'd be staying tonight, but she knew she hadn't thought she'd be sitting in a hotel room listening to the news of Adam's death. The voice droned on from the telly. _It is believed that one of the would-be bombers died in the attack. There were no other casualties._

Ros heard a light knock. She set down her glass, walked to the door and opened it, knowing it could only be Harry. He had dropped her here, hours ago, on his way to pick up Wes and take him to his grandparents' house, so he was the only one who knew where she was. Ros thought he might also be the only one who really cared. Six months of being dead in Moscow hadn't done much toward maintaining relationships with anyone else on or off the Grid.

Harry's face looked as haunted as hers felt. "A drink at the bar?" he asked, his voice betraying the emotion he was barely suppressing.

"Another one?" She inclined her head toward the nearly empty wine bottle behind her. "Why not?" Ros got her keys and stepped out to meet him in the hall. They were the only two who could comfort each other, really.

They rode the lift down in silence, and found a spot at a long table with a view of the street. Ros ordered another Merlot, and Harry a scotch. Harry finally spoke, wondering if Ros didn't want to stay in her own home tonight.

Ros shrugged. "I sold my house, given that I was inconveniently dead." To Harry's distressed look, she said casually, "It's only a house."

Another short silence. Harry needed to talk about Adam, but he didn't know quite how to start. He realised he'd never spoken to Ros about what he knew of their relationship. He started tentatively, "I know that you and Adam ..."

Ros cut him off, sharply. "Adam and I were never going to be, Harry. That's why I stayed dead in the first place. To let him move on."

"And you?"

"Me too. To let me move on." She took a sip of her wine, and then she turned to Harry. "And you and Ruth?"

Harry was astonished by the question, and how casually she had asked it. For a moment, he just held her eyes in silence. Ros was looking at him with her familiar icy stare, but there was a softness, a vulnerability to it. In her own pain, she was reaching out to ask about his. "Come on, Harry. I, of all people, should know she's probably still alive somewhere. And if I can rise from the dead, anyone can."

Harry's first reaction was to say_ I don't know what you're talking about_, but he broke her gaze first, and looked down into his drink. He couldn't see the need not to be honest in this moment. They had a bond of sorts. He'd watched Ros die, after all, he'd cried watching her. And they'd both lost so much today. This was his third scotch tonight, and he just didn't have it in him to pretend.

Harry's voice was low. "We've moved on too." He looked up at Ros, and she could see his eyes glistening slightly. "She's somewhere safe."

Ros tilted her head slightly and frowned, understanding completely what she was seeing. Her voice was soft. "And you still love her."

Harry looked away, and shrugged, sighing. Then he turned and gazed at Ros again, fully meeting her eyes. "I'll always love her."

Ros smiled sadly. "I'm sorry, Harry. Really sorry." She looked at the cars passing on the street outside. "Love doesn't mix very well with this job, does it?"

"No." Harry held up his glass, and Ros touched hers to it. "No, it doesn't."

They sat for a time, quietly. Finally, Ros spoke. "I saw Adam today. This morning. For the first time in six months." She looked over at Harry. "For just a moment, standing outside the memorial. He was getting into the car." She sighed. "Of course, I didn't know it had a bomb in it, and he didn't volunteer the information."

"Did you speak to each other?"

"I called out his name, and he looked at me. He smiled, and it was the Adam I knew, the one from our times alone together, not working. He was surprised to see me. He said my name, and I walked toward him. For a moment, I thought he might close the door and come round to me, but ... " She paused and looked into her glass, just on the edge of control, " ... but, then, his face changed, he was back at work, and he said, 'Tranquillity's that way.' He got in the car and drove away."

Ros continued, "And when Lucas told me, 'Adam Carter is dead ... '" She took a breath, collecting herself, " ... I looked up into that smoke, from the bomb, and I knew he was in there somewhere. Who he was. It was flying upward, and it was the last I would see of him."

She turned to Harry, her eyes slightly stricken. "Adam and I stood for over thirty seconds, Harry. I stopped him from driving away." Harry could see tears beginning to form again. "I stood there too long. I needed to see him, and I kept him too long. If I hadn't called out his name, do you think he might still be alive? How much more time did he need? Ten seconds, fifteen? I'm afraid that I took those from him."

Harry shook his head, and spoke firmly. "It wasn't your fault, Ros. Any more than it was mine. I sent him out there." Harry put his hand on hers. "I know it doesn't make it any easier, but I was starting to feel that he wanted to die, somehow. As if he was looking for it."

Ros nodded. "Oh, I know. Adam was going to die, Harry. To know him at all is to know that. He knew it. It didn't frighten him, it exhilarated him, it gave him purpose."

"Yes." Harry didn't know what else to say. He wondered if there would ever be anything else to say about how this day had turned out.

After a long silence, Ros took a deep breath and turned to him. "I've had a little time, and I've done a lot of thinking, Harry, and I made my choices, I made them a long time ago. And as it turns out, they were the right ones. This is what I am." She paused for a moment, and Harry thought he knew what she was about to say. Ros said firmly, "I want it back. Give me Section D."

Harry shook his head, sighing, "Ros, there's nobody more capable of running the section, I know that ... "

She challenged him before he could finish. "Do you think that because Adam died, I'm going to go to pieces? Well, I'm not. I'm ready."

"You might be ready. You might be ready to leap into the fray, Ros." Harry sighed. "But I'm not even sure I can trust my own judgment at the moment. My friend is dead. And I want nothing more than revenge. I want to take the Russian operation in Britain, shoot it through the heart and watch it bleed to death. Am I to be allowed that indulgence?" Harry paused, waiting for an answer that didn't come, so he continued, looking away. "I'm going to ask Dolby for authorization to target Kachimov directly."

Ros was suddenly exhausted. _Death, revenge, death, revenge_. She agreed with Harry that Kachimov needed to feel some of their pain, but tonight, she couldn't think about it. She had flown in from Moscow this morning, she was back in London, and Adam was dead. It was more than enough for one bloody day.

She drained her glass, and stood. "Go to bed, Harry, we're not doing each other any good." Without another word, she was gone.

Harry sat for a little while longer at the bar. As he finished his drink, he was still thinking of Kachimov and revenge. Then he thought he might leave his car in the car park and call for a cab, so that he could order another single malt to increase the numbness he was just starting to feel. But instead, his mind strayed, as it always did, to Ruth, and that made him want to get home to her.

His Ruth. The only one who ever seemed able to give him peace. What would she say if she were here? How would she comfort him? Because he knew she would, somehow. As he called for the tab, Harry understood, of course, that she wasn't actually at his home. But there was more of her there than here in this bar, and right now he needed to be as close to her as he could possibly be.

A short and careful drive, then into his dressing robe, another drink poured, and a seat on the sofa with the girls around him. Harry picked up the microphone, and again, his Ruth was there, next to him.

_My dearest Ruth,_

_I've said I've missed you, but never more than tonight. I feel I would give almost anything to have you here now, because never have I needed you more. To have your hand stroking my face, your lips kissing my fingers, your eyes offering wisdom, empathy, and love._

_How to tell you this news? Terrible news, heartbreaking news. Adam is gone. He's with Fiona, finally, where you and I always knew he would go, sooner or later. I must confess, I hadn't thought that it would come so quickly._

_At first I felt I couldn't bear this without you, but I seem to have managed up till now. Of course I haven't gone to bed yet, and I fear for my dreams. I need you to hold me tonight, to tell me that everything will be alright, because I'm having my doubts._

_Right now I wonder about everything. There is a relentlessness to those we fight, and I see days stretched ahead filled with bombs, and threats, and young men, good soldiers and fine officers, losing their lives no matter how hard we try to save them. I need you to tell me, as you always have, that what I do has meaning. On this terribly sad night, yours is the only opinion I crave._

_I had to tell Wes today that his father had died. Well, actually, he saved me the task, as he seemed to know as soon as he saw me, waiting for him to finish his match. Everything you said to me in Polis, about Fiona and motherhood, came back to me as I stood there. You said Fiona thought it selfish that she and Adam had a child, and I had to confess I agreed with her as I wondered how to tell her son that he was now an orphan._

_Ros said tonight that love and this job don't mix. But that can't be true, because my heart is so full of you, my Ruth, and I am still here in this job. Tomorrow I must plan a funeral, another one. Not like yours, or Ros', but a real one. Adam is gone. I must keep saying it to make it real._

_My eyes are closed, and now you're here. It calms me just to imagine it. Please tell me we'll have time, my Ruth. When this is all over, when we can be safe together, when I'm ready to leave this all behind, I need to know that we'll have time._

_Love me, Ruth. Please continue to love me. And if your psychic powers are intact, and you know that something is terribly wrong here, I hope you'll hold Adam in that wonderful warm heart of yours. He cared a great deal for you, and I will never forget that he saved your life._

_I love you dearly. And now I will try to sleep._

_Yours always and forever,_

_Harry_

He turned off the recorder, and laid down, pulling the blanket around him. He knew he couldn't go up to bed. She wasn't there. But as he had just spoken to her here on the sofa, he felt her close to him now. So here he would stay for the night.

* * *

Ruth didn't know why, but she cried herself to sleep that night. She felt Harry reaching out to her in such deep pain that she almost wrote to Malcolm. Something had happened, she knew it, and the agony of not knowing whether Harry was safe and well was almost too much for her.

She finally laid down and gave in to it. She cried for herself, for not knowing. She cried for Harry and whatever he might be going through. And she cried for both of them, because they should be in each other's arms right now, warm and loved, rather than being in their separate beds, alone.

As she fell finally asleep, Ruth told herself that if she didn't feel better in the morning, she would write to Malcolm, and safety be damned.

Ruth felt torn in two. Something had to change, or she thought she would lose her mind. She felt as if she had one foot on either side of a yawning chasm, the ground shaking beneath her. If she didn't choose one side or the other soon, she thought she might fall and be lost forever.

She had no idea how long she could bear this.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER SEVENTY**

* * *

Ruth had fallen asleep, but it hadn't lasted long. Two hours later, she'd rolled over and her eyes had opened and stayed that way. No matter how she tried to get comfortable, it was a lost cause, so finally, she gave in and got up.

When Ruth's analyst's mind was working, it was futile to try to get it to stop. It was why she was so good at her job on the Grid, she simply got hold of a problem and worried it until it was solved. And her intuition, her feelings, had been the reason she'd been able to take so many seemingly unrelated bits of information and put together a final answer. It was a talent she valued in herself, one of which she was proud. But at times like this, it was more of a curse than a blessing. It gave her a night like this one, losing sleep and pacing the floor of her small flat at three in the morning.

She was trying not to open her laptop, because she knew if she did, she would email Malcolm. She knew she could do it anytime she wished, but she wanted to use judgment and discernment in choosing to open that channel of communication again. It was hard to know if this feeling of distress was real, or if it simply came from a longing for Harry, from a need to make contact with her old life.

For a time, Ruth stood on her balcony, gazing at the small strip of the Mediterranean that was visible there, and she watched the glimmer of the moon on the sea. If only she could fly across the water, beam herself onto the Grid, and see what was going on.

Ruth smiled. _Nothing's going on, you idiot, it's one in the bloody morning there_. She closed her eyes. She imagined the Grid dark, as it had been on that night that she'd waited for Harry. The night she'd learned that he'd been reinstated as Head of Section D, and she knew that he would come to his office before going home. Ruth had decided she would stay all night if she had to, because he deserved a welcome after what he'd been through. When she heard the sound of the pods, she'd known it was him. Ruth had the glorious privilege of seeing him before he saw her, for just a moment, as he took in the pleasure of being back there again.

_Good to have you back_, she'd said to him._ It's good to be back_, he replied. Ruth had long wished to hear those words in reverse, had wondered under what circumstances it would be possible for her to hear Harry say, _Good to have you back_. She imagined herself repeating his words_, It's good to be back_.

Opening her eyes again, Ruth tried to shake the feelings of dread she was having, but it wasn't working. From experience, she knew that it had now gone beyond her power to forget. The feeling had taken up residence just under her breastbone, and her thoughts were running out of her control. The only thing to do, the only way she could find peace, was to write to Malcolm and ask him.

Ruth walked back into the flat, and went straight to her laptop, this time with purpose. She opened it, pressed the power button, and put in her password. While it booted up, she went to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. _Sweet tea, that's what you need. _Ruth shook her head and smiled in spite of herself. _Get out of my head, Harry. How on Earth am I supposed to forget you, if you won't get out of my head?_

While the water boiled, she started the intricate process of getting to the _l'Alcove_ website. She composed the short email in her mind while she waited for the window to open, and then she typed it quickly, and clicked "Send." Ruth looked at the time. It was a quarter past one in London. Not likely that she would get an answer before Malcolm arrived on the Grid at about eight, which would be ten Ruth's time. But now she had a steaming cup of sweet tea, and was completely awake. She clicked the icon for _The Times_ online to see if there was any news of Remembrance Sunday.

It was front and centre of the home page. A car afire, and a large article:

_...In the wake of yesterday's aborted terror plot, opposition leaders have been swift to question the Government on the impact of its anti-terror legislation. Other than a brief statement in which it gave thanks to the police and emergency services for their part in averting an unthinkable catastrophe, the Government has yet to officially comment. No details have been released about the identities of the suspected terrorists involved_...

Ruth read it all. She could close her eyes and see the Grid alive with activity, Harry managing the information as it came in from Adam and Jo, and probably others by now. New people that Ruth didn't know, certainly. She felt out of touch, but she could easily recall the feelings, the urgency that must have been there yesterday. She read the article again to see what time the bomb had detonated. Eleven o'clock. One o'clock on Cyprus. Just when the chill had gone down her back.

Her heart was starting to speed now, and she was the analyst again. She read the story three more times, and clicked for additional photos. A spectacular bomb blast, and the pictures taken from all sides of the still-burning car showed the damage that had been done to the square and what looked to be empty buildings around it. _No casualties other than the terrorist who was driving the car_. But if they had planned to kill those at the St. Augustus ceremonies, why was the car nearly a mile away?

Someone must have driven it there. Either the terrorist, or someone else. It didn't really make sense that the terrorist would be taking the bomb _away_ from the people they wanted to kill, so it was probably somebody else. Somebody from the police, from emergency services, or from MI5.

_Exactly eleven o'clock._ Ruth leant back and took a long sip of her tea, trying to calm herself. How many press releases had she written and delivered to the Home Office as their official account of "what had happened?" And the first rule was, no one from MI5 dies. The terrorists die, but spooks are already ghosts. There's never an acknowledgement to the public_. Who was driving that car?_

* * *

"Go home, Malcolm." Connie had her coat on and was standing between Malcolm and the pods.

"I'm too angry to go home." Malcolm didn't even bother to turn around. It was very late. It wasn't Remembrance Sunday anymore, it was half past one, already a new day. No longer the day that Adam Carter had died.

Walking over to Malcolm, Connie tried to understand what she was seeing on his monitor. "What are you doing?"

"Displacement activity. Surfing the frequencies."

Connie stood behind him for a moment, and then she said, "Don't stay all night."

Malcolm's eyes were still focused on the screen. His voice was flat, emotionless. "Absolutely. Good night."

After Connie went through the pods, Malcolm watched the monitor for a short while, and then he finally let his eyes gravitate again toward the bottom of his screen, to the small icon there. An email had come through on the secure channel, and he'd been waiting for Connie to leave so that he could open it. There were only a few people who knew about Martin Wingate's email, and there was only one who had used it regularly of late.

He opened the letter from _l'Alcove_, read it, and for a moment, was at an absolute loss. Harry had told him that under no circumstances was he to show him another letter from Ruth. Well, he could follow that order. He wouldn't show Harry, but her question still hung in the air. It was a simple question. Unfortunately, the answer was far from simple.

_Dear Mr. Wingate,_

_I need you to answer this letter. Is our mutual friend safe, and well? A feeling will not leave me that something dreadful has happened to someone I love. No matter what your instructions are from that particular person, I won't rest until I get an answer. Please reply to me, and then I'll return to my silence._

_I've always counted on you, and I beg you not to leave me in the dark. It's a terrible place to be. I know something has happened, I simply need to know what it is. I deserve to know. Please._

_F.R.B._

Malcolm released a heavy sigh. _Ruth and her bloody sixth sense_.

Trouble was, he agreed with her. She did deserve to know. Both things. That Harry was well, physically, anyway, and that Adam was dead. Hadn't they all, through their years of dedication to the Security Services, earned the right to at least be allowed to grieve for each other? If he were in exile, if he had felt a loss that he couldn't explain, wouldn't he want to know? He would hope, if the shoe were on the other foot, that Ruth would find a way to tell him.

One by one, so many had left the Grid, by circumstance or by death. Helen, Tom, Zoe, Danny, Sam, Zaf, Ruth. Of course, Colin had been the hardest for Malcolm to reconcile, because he never should have been put in a position to die that way. And now Adam. Malcolm was sick of it, of saying goodbye to people. He was mad as hell, really.

So Harry didn't want to know? Well, then, he wouldn't need to know. But Malcolm would do what he felt was right. What's the bloody good of secure technology if you can't use it for this very purpose?

Malcolm took one last look around the Grid, and clicked "Reply."

* * *

Ruth looked at the clock. Nearly four in the morning. Although she knew it was unlikely that Malcolm would have gotten her email, she couldn't stop herself. She worked her way back through the system, and after entering her password, Ruth took a sharp breath. _One message_. If Malcolm was still on the Grid, it could only be very bad. Her heart was pounding now, and she considered simply closing her laptop and giving herself more time to not know. But she had to know.

His email was very short. And utterly devastating.

_F.R.B._

_Arden is well, but another has eaten from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Our hearts are broken. _

_M.W._

Ruth's eyes began to fill and spill over immediately. Malcolm knew this was all she would need. The passage from the Bible, _"...but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it; for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die."_ It was the warning to Adam in Genesis. And now Ruth knew that it was Adam who had driven that car to the square, and that Adam was dead.

The sound escaped her lips before she could stop it, "No, no ...," in a soft wail, " ...no, not Adam." The screen blurred and his face replaced it, smiling, laughing, then with the pain of Fiona's death written there, then Danny's, then his face proud with Wes. She saw him across from her in meetings, how he would wait, and listen, his mind working. The long night after Cotterdam, before she left England. Their deep talk as they drove from the forest south of Paris to the airport before their trip to Cyprus. He had brought her here, he had saved her life. When she had been so afraid and she'd turned and seen him, a smile curling his lips, _Shall I hit her again, Ruth_? A low sob echoed through Ruth's small flat as she tried to make sense of what she now knew was true.

He had driven the car to that square to save others, and after cheating death so many times, Adam Carter had finally lost the gamble. She traced the route in her head, pictured the car speeding past busy intersections, past car parks, past buildings full of people, toward the one place it would do no harm. No harm to anyone but him. Adam was dead. _Oh, Harry, you knew this would happen_.

What had Harry said? _I've tried to keep Adam safe, but he won't let me_. _It's like he wants to go to where Fiona is_. Now he was there, with Fiona. Ruth stood, her tears still falling, and began to pace, slowly. And Wes, what about Wes? Harry would have taken that on himself, to make sure Wes was cared for.

Ruth walked back to the computer, needing to read the email again. _Arden is well_. She read the words over and over, feeling a sense of guilt that those words could give her such happiness in connection with the rest of the news contained there. Harry was well. She didn't think that could be entirely true. Ruth was certain that Harry was crushed, Harry was feeling responsible, Harry was, as Malcolm had said, heartbroken.

Another sound, a strangled "ooh," emerged from Ruth's throat as she closed the email and exited the website. Turning off her computer, she stood again and went over to the sofa. She lay down, clutching a pillow, and thought of the waste. Adam was, what, thirty-six years old? Wes was ten, now an orphan. Another one taken, and no one knew. _No casualties other than the terrorist who was driving the car_. She had written those words before, sent them quickly off to the PM's office, or Whitehall. It was her job, it was what she did. _No one could ever know the truth_.

Ruth held the pillow up to her face, and now it was to stifle the scream that came from deep within her. The sound sprung from anger and the agony of loss, but it held so much more. It demanded to know, _What was it all for? _and in that moment, Ruth felt something snap in her. Something broke free, and she felt it drifting away, out of her reach.

Memories began to tumble past her, out of order, with no sense. Kissing Harry goodbye in the mist of Dover and the profound pain of missing him, her prison room in Paris, the feel of the coldness of Danny's forehead as she stroked it, listening to Harry tell them Colin was dead, her last hug with Isabelle, leaving her cats, her house, London, her loneliness, her tears and still more tears. Ruth simply watched as they tumbled past, but they piled one atop the other, until finally the scream ended and the numbness began.

Ruth was aware that she was having a sort of a breakdown, and she let herself fall, almost calmly, into it. She let go of everything she'd been clutching at for so long, the Grid, her life in London, the place she occupied in that world, the people there. She fell, like Alice down the rabbit-hole, the memories held in niches on the walls. Harry was above her, at the mouth of the hole, but he grew smaller and smaller, as she was pulled away by gravity, a force so strong she couldn't begin to overcome it.

She didn't consciously let go of Harry, her strength simply disappeared, and she was drawn away from him. Her heart was beating softly now, rather than pounding, as it had been. Her breath slowed, and nothing seemed terrible anymore. It was as if she'd been given a wonderful forgetting drug, and all the things that had seemed so important just moments ago lost their hold on her.

Still on the sofa, still with her head on the pillow, Ruth looked at what she could see of her flat. She was warm, safe, and had a roof over her head. She had friends and a job. Her body was strong and her mind was good. She was in a beautiful place and needed for nothing, really. In her numbness, she felt a sense of her ingratitude for all the things she'd been given, and she wondered why she'd spent so much of her time here unhappy, wishing, wanting, needing something else.

Her life on the Grid and in London suddenly looked to her like a film. She could see herself in the Polis Cinema, feel the hard folding chair beneath her as she watched what had been. That was the film, and Polis was real life. And when she saw Adam, she knew that he had, in fact, left the screen and gone home to Fiona. They were together, and Adam's grief, his agony at losing the love of his life, was gone from his face.

Ruth lay for a long time, the tears drying from her cheeks, her face impassive. On some level, she was aware that she was probably in a sort of shock, but she was also grateful that she didn't hurt so much anymore. She lay thinking until the sun began to peek over the horizon. Finally, she got up and went to the balcony again. The moon was gone.

She cleaned up the tea things, turned out the lights and went in to bed. And then Ruth finally slept.

* * *

At the moment Ruth arose from her sofa in Polis, Harry did the same in London. He had slept some hours there, and was by now wedged into place by warm animals. He opened his eyes, and for a blissful moment, Harry didn't remember what had happened the day before. Then it seeped into his consciousness and he rolled over on his back, feeling the ache there from the cramped position he'd been in.

Fidget and Phoebe woke and jumped down to where Scarlet lay. Harry sighed and sat up, running his hands roughly over his face. Turning on the side lamp, he looked at the clock. Quarter past three. He thought he should go upstairs and try to get a few more hours of sleep, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he wouldn't be capable of it.

Standing, Harry stretched, and felt every bit his age. He padded to the kitchen and switched the kettle on, pulling down the tea. _Sweet tea, how very English._ The thought of Ruth suddenly assaulted him, and a fresh wave of pain washed through his chest.

What would Ruth think about all this? Harry remembered her face as she stood over Danny. Seeing that look had been almost as shattering to Harry as seeing Danny's body lying there. She was in desperate grief, of course, but her eyes held something else, something reproachful. _How could this happen?_ He'd had to walk away, to turn away from her eyes, because he didn't know the answer.

And now, Adam. He'd begged him to get out of the car, but he'd known all along that Adam wouldn't do it. Harry wondered sometimes how much power he had over the people in his charge. They had been chosen for the Services because they had minds of their own. Creative, dynamic minds that made decisions independent of any orders they received. Harry counted on them for that, so how could he fault Adam now for doing what he felt was right? In the end, he'd saved hundreds of lives.

_The scale can't tip toward just one person_. Adam couldn't have lived with himself knowing that he'd chosen himself, the one, over the many. If only he'd had enough time to do both. Harry hadn't said as much last night, but Ros may have been right. Those few seconds she had stolen from him may have been enough.

As Harry waited for the kettle to boil, he wondered at the intricate dance of human beings together. Those few seconds yesterday had determined the life and death of so many people. And each death touches so many. The deaths of everybody at that ceremony, had the bomb detonated as the terrorists planned, would have affected so many others, in ripples outward, _ad infinitum_. Ros' few seconds with Adam may have been the reason Wesley Adam Carter's life changed forever yesterday. Wes' experience would affect his children someday, and so on, and so on.

Harry rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on. He felt empty, in more ways than one. He hadn't eaten dinner the night before, unless scotch could be considered a meal. He went to the breadbox to make some toast, and in fact, he thought, an omelette would taste good. Ruth would be telling him to eat. _Please get out of my head, Ruth. Not now, I can't face you now. Would you wonder how I could let this happen?_ No, she would comfort him, tell him he'd done his best. She would hold him, and say she loved him ...

Harry shook his head, unable to deal with how much he missed her right now. And again, he wondered how Malcolm could possibly be in his sixth year of loving a woman he didn't have. He supposed it could only be explained by a cast-iron constitution, and a heart that was steadfast and overflowing with hope. _Good qualities._ Harry wasn't sure he had any of them right now.

He walked over to the shelf in the lounge. Her photo was toward the wall so that _I love you_ showed through the clear frame. He picked it up and turned it around in his hands. Running a finger gently across her face, he allowed her radiant smile to curl the corners of his own lips, and his heart filled with her. Yes, she would comfort him. _You did your best, Harry_. Softly, gratefully, he said, "Thank you, my Ruth."

Walking back to the kitchen, he began to sort out his day. Breakfast, a hot shower, and then he would meet with Richard Dolby at the JIC. Harry's pain was moving back toward anger, and a need for revenge.

However it was served, hot or cold, he would have revenge.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE**

* * *

Harry asked Richard Dolby for permission to go after the Russian operation in London, and most especially Arkady Kachimov, whom Harry held personally responsible for Adam's death. Arkady had known about the car bomb, and had done nothing to warn them. But Dolby had said, in no uncertain terms, that Harry was not to target the Russian operation in London.

"What do we do?" Jo asked when Harry relayed the news.

"We target the Russian operation in London." Harry pointed to the video screen. "Led by this man, Arkady Kachimov. I've been told we can't target him directly, but we have to find out what his game is. He's a real and present danger to the British people, and let's not forget," Harry's voice took on a menacing quality, "This is the man responsible for the death of Adam Carter."

Harry placed his hands on Kachimov's file in front on him on the table. "A file three inches thick. Tells us where he's been, what he's done, and with who, but I want the smell of him, his breath, his sweat."

Ros explained that they had selected a key Russian player in London to find a way to Kachimov. Harry said, "Then let's leverage that asset until the pips squeak. Find me a way to stop Arkady Kachimov." Everyone but Harry pushed their chairs back, preparing to leave the meeting.

In a tone that offered no room for argument, Harry added, "One more thing. As of today, Ros assumes the position of Section Chief."

* * *

Lucas stood at the door to the meeting room. "I want to come back."

The debriefing process hadn't gone quite the way Lucas wanted it to. Instead of getting an assignment, he'd answered a few questions about Arkady Kachimov, and then been dismissed to his unpacking at the new flat. But as he started to go out the door, Lucas simply couldn't leave it. He wanted to come back to work, and he knew that with Adam gone, the Grid was a man down. They needed him.

"No." Harry sat at the table with his head in his hands. He didn't want to have this discussion. Not because it was unreasonable for Lucas to ask, but because Harry felt so utterly on the fence, he was afraid Lucas might find a way to sway him.

"I'm ready."

Harry pounded his hands down on the table. "You are _not_. The debriefing process alone will take several weeks, and then there's the question of your health."

Lucas came right to the point. "There's the question of my loyalty."

"In my mind, there's no question, but that's my mistake, Lucas. It would be wrong of me to trust you because of where you've been, who you've been with, and the threat that Russia currently poses towards this country." Harry stood and went to Lucas, softening his voice. "Don't take this personally. You're home. Take the time, enjoy it."

Lucas gave a weary laugh. "Home isn't where you live, it's where people understand you. If I don't have trust with MI5, with _you_," he looked pointedly at Harry, "then I'll never really be home. I'll just be back in England."

Lucas left the meeting room, and Harry stood there for a long time, trying to read his own feelings. He shouldn't trust Lucas, but his instinct wanted to believe him. It seemed entirely wrong for a man to spend eight years in prison, and then be punished with mistrust when he finally got home.

In the debrief, Lucas had said that Kachimov spent years interrogating him, and that he'd been playful, with no impatience. _So he's a chess player_, Harry said. Lucas also said that Arkady had used Harry to try to turn him_. He implied that you, personally, didn't seem in much of a hurry to get me back._

It was classic psychological technique, and very effective. Let the prisoner think that his own people had forgotten about him, make him feel alone, abandoned, and he's ripe for turning. It becomes a matter of personal revenge, to get back at those who let him rot in prison while they lived in their comfortable homes.

The truth was, Harry had worked tirelessly to get Lucas back. He never wanted to leave a man in the field, and Lucas had been one of the brightest young officers Harry had known. Harry knew that if he allowed Lucas to begin working with them right away, he would find out two things: If he was still loyal, and if he was healthy enough to do the work.

Before Harry had that opportunity, however, Ros discovered that Lucas was passing information directly to Arkady. When confronted, Lucas' explanation was a surprisingly good one. He said he was doing it to try to bring Kachimov down. Lucas wanted his own revenge after eight years of interrogation by Kachimov_. _

Sitting across from Lucas, Harry's voice was firm, cold. "If you're lying to me, you won't get so much as a funeral."

"I know you want him, Harry. So do I. This is your chance, your one chance. Take it. Now."

Lucas was offering Kachimov to Harry, and it was more than Harry could resist. Kachimov was playing a dangerous game. A Russian submarine had attempted a form of cyber terrorism by attacking a fibre optic communications cable in the North Sea. Through the efforts of Ros, Lucas and Malcolm, MI5 was instead able to launch a virus into the submarine's computer system. It not only kept the Russians from shutting down the internet throughout the UK, but it also took out the sub's computer and navigations systems, stopping them dead in the water. It was an unmitigated success.

Harry had followed his instincts and had trusted Lucas. In the end, it was Kachimov who lost the chess game. And it was Lucas who brought him to them.

* * *

"I just need to know that you're okay. Are you well?" George was looking at Ruth with narrowed eyes and concern etched on his face. He waited for her to answer, but she was taking her time. She simply gazed down into her wine glass, seemingly lost in another world. Ruth always seemed to have one foot in another place, but today, she appeared to be entirely elsewhere.

She'd been strange all day, from the moment he'd awakened her. He'd called her from the hospital, where she was uncharacteristically overdue for her shift, and she'd mumbled something about a sleepless night. She'd arrived an hour later, looking hollow-eyed and distracted. He'd asked then if she should go back home and rest, and she'd said, "No, I need to work." Those five words were all she'd spoken all morning. Ruth buried her nose in her accounts and scarcely looked up for four hours.

When George had reminded her of their dinner tonight, she'd answered, "Ah, yes," but with a delay, a momentary lapse during which she seemed to be looking right through him to the wall behind his head. If he hadn't known better, George might have thought she was on a high dose of Prozac or Zoloft. There was a vacancy in her eyes, an emptiness that alarmed him.

But George had learnt long ago not to ask too many questions of Ruth. The few times he had gone too far, he'd been met with a warning, a flash almost of anger, a look that said, _Don't cross that line, I won't let you_. He loved her so much by now that he almost didn't need to know what secrets she held. He tried to relate to her as a woman with no past. George loved her, and he continued to hold out hope that someday she would love him.

She seemed to care for him, and it seemed to him that it was in a way that was beyond the sisterly love he had felt from her at first. It was as if she were waiting for something, or someone, to decide whether she should move forward or go back to whatever it was that brought her here to Cyprus. George's hope was that one day she would wake and resolve to make the decision herself. That she would stop waiting. And when that time came, he wanted to be sure that he was standing directly in front of her.

Tonight, however, he was worried. Ruth was an expert at keeping her present life firmly separated from whatever mysteries she held inside. He'd seen her really crack only twice. With the newspaper that day in the Square, and one night at dinner, when he'd ordered a bottle of white burgundy. Her head had whipped up and she'd said, "No!" as if he'd asked that a live grenade be brought to the table. Both times she had immediately covered her distress, but tonight, she didn't even seem aware that there was any distress to cover.

Ruth looked up at him. "I'm fine, really." She spoke with what psychiatrists called a "flat affect." A lack of emotion, a clean slate, an empty canvas.

George decided that this was a time that he wished to see the warning and anger that questions would bring, so he took a chance. He did something he'd promised himself he'd never do. He asked her questions. "Something happened to you last night, between the time we dropped you off after our day at the beach and this morning when I called you. I want to know what it was." He spoke firmly, hoping it would jar her, and he steeled himself for her angry response.

It did jar her, but not in the way he thought. She wasn't angry. She suddenly looked up at him, and said, "You deserve to know so much more than I've told you." Now her eyes were alive, penetrating, with an intensity that he was glad to see. But what she had said was so open, so honest, that it took George aback for a moment.

Finally, he found his voice, and said, "Are there things you want to tell me now?" This was a change. He didn't know whether it was a good change or a bad change, but it was definitely different.

"Yes." She said it with her eyes on his, but then she looked down, almost as if the word had escaped her lips without her willing it.

Exhaling, he raised his eyebrows, and stayed silent. It seemed she needed time, and he would give her as much time as she required. He sipped his Cabernet, watching her.

Ruth began, softly, "I haven't been fair to you, and you've been more than patient. But life is too short..." At this, her voice choked slightly, and she stopped, gathering herself. After a sip of wine, she continued. "A good friend died yesterday..."

George started to reach out to her, but Ruth put up her hand to stop him. "I don't think I can bear sympathy right now, George. I thank you for the impulse, but I ... I can't ... bear it." Her voice broke again, and he pulled his hand back. He was almost afraid to breathe at this point. She was talking to him about her feelings, and was on the verge, it seemed, of telling him things about who she was.

She regained control and began again, her eyes down, as she folded and unfolded her napkin. "I lived and worked in London. I fell in love with a man at my work. That much I've told you." Ruth paused before moving into uncharted territory, but still she didn't meet George's eyes. "What I didn't tell you is that we had to keep our relationship a secret, because he was my supervisor. He was blamed for something he didn't do, and was put in jail. The only way I could get him out of jail was to say that I did it." She looked up at George, finally, her eyes moist. "I had to leave London. I can never go back to England, or I'll be arrested."

Ruth's eyes went quickly back to her napkin, and George thought she was waiting for a response. The news wasn't shocking to him, in fact, it explained so many things. It seemed something that Ruth would do, giving herself up for someone she loved. She had lost a country and a relationship in one swift act, which told him so much about her pain and her distance. Considering her skills at the hospital, George now assumed that she had worked in a financial institution of some kind, a brokerage, a bank, and that the issue was likely fraud, or embezzlement.

He spoke softly to her, trying to get her to look at him. "You acted selflessly, and out of love, which seems entirely in character, Ruth."

She looked up at him sharply, suspicious. "You're not angry, or disgusted, or disappointed. How can that be?"

"It's because you've told me the truth. That's all that matters to me. You haven't murdered someone. He wasn't married ..." He tilted his head at her, suddenly. "Was he?"

Ruth shook her head and managed a wistful smile, "Only to his job."

George weighed his next question carefully, but finally, just came out with it. "And you still love him, very much, don't you, Ruth?"

Now George saw the facade crumble. Where her eyes had been vacant before, there was now a depth of pain that he'd seldom seen in another's eyes. They answered his question more fully than any words could, and his heart sank a little. This was not merely a flirtation with a boss, this was a deep and lasting love. But even as her eyes began to fill, he saw that she wasn't waving him away or putting him off. Ruth was struggling to respond to him, and he was touched that she was trying.

"It's ... it's a very hard question to answer." Ruth quickly brushed her hand across her cheek to wipe away a tear that had escaped. She sighed, and shook her head. "Of course, you can see that I still love him." Looking directly into his eyes, she said, softly, "I suppose you need to know that I'll always love him."

Her honesty made George feel braver, and he leapt. "Well then, my next question must be, is there room in your heart to love another as well, Ruth?"

Ruth gazed at him in silence for a time. _What a good man this is_. She wanted to be as honest with him as she possibly could, but she needed to sort it out herself before she could answer him. She still loved Harry so deeply, but something had changed last night. She thought the shock might have passed, but the numbness had remained to a degree, and the diminishing feeling seemed to be in the general vicinity of her heart. She thought it had something to do with her having had enough, finally. Enough pain, enough death, enough worry, enough of missing Harry and not knowing if he was missing her.

She suddenly longed for simplicity, in the way that someone cleans out a wardrobe and impulsively gives everything away, or organises a new address book by removing long-lost acquaintances. As Ruth looked at George, she was very aware that simplicity was sitting across from her at this dinner table on a beautiful island in the Mediterranean.

George was not a simple man by any means, but his life had an order to it, an elegance, that she suddenly craved. That he loved her was obvious, and that he played no games was very attractive. There was no guile to him. He wore his heart on his sleeve in his work, and with her. Right was right with George, with very few grey areas, really.

Amazed at the feeling, Ruth sensed her heart opening another notch to George. He was her best friend here, and she had no one to talk with about her feelings for Harry. He was willing to talk about them with her, and she was grateful. Ruth thought of her mother and David, and saw contentment. And right now, especially after last night, contentment looked to be a not-half-bad state in which to live.

_Is there room in your heart to love another as well, Ruth?_ The question hung in the air, and George was waiting patiently for an answer. _Waiting patiently_. That was George. Could her heart expand? Could it stretch to include more than Harry, who seemed to have already filled it beyond any capacity she'd ever known?

"I don't know." She was withholding the truth about so many things already, she had to tell him the truth about this. She looked up at him, finally, and shrugged slightly, repeating the words, "I don't know."

He smiled good naturedly. "Well, that's not a 'no,' then, is it?"

She smiled back, but George could see that her eyes were still unalterably sad. "No, it's not."

George was wondering how long it would be before he had another chance like this, with Ruth so open. He had so many questions to ask of her. They were all stored safely away, but now he took them out and weighed which was the most important. "You're very sweet with Nico, Ruth. I see a longing in your eyes. I've often wondered, do you have a child?"

The question surprised her, as did his perception. She laughed softly, "No, but I've thought about it quite a lot lately, for some reason." She took another sip of her wine. "Nico's a wonderful boy, George, and you're a very good father. I enjoy being with the two of you. I always thought that motherhood was somewhat out of my reach ... my job ... "

She stopped suddenly, and George saw the openness begin to shut down. "Don't, Ruth. Don't go further than you want. I'm so very glad to be talking with you this way." He started to reach his hand out again, but pulled it back. "Tell me how you feel about Cyprus. Can you see yourself living here always? Is it enough, do you think? It wasn't for Emily, and you are like her in all the best ways, all the ways I loved ... " Now George stopped himself, unsure how to go on.

Ruth laughed now, really laughed. "Cripes, we can't even finish a sentence with each other, can we? So many forbidden subjects." Ruth tilted her head and smiled, relaxing a bit. "Give me time, George. I'm so bloody confused right now. But you're my best friend here, and that's something, isn't it? Can we go from there and just not ask too much of each other?"

He relaxed too. "Yes. We can."

Ruth sighed deeply, and said, resigned. "I love a man who is still in England, and right now, I feel I will always love him. But I'm afraid he and I can't have a life together, and that's that. I don't know how far my heart can expand, but you're my friend and I care for you. I feel good about Cyprus and my life here, and I need to reconcile myself that the past is just that. Can you live with all that for now, George?"

George nodded. "Yes, Ruth. The truth is what matters to me, and you've told me the truth." He thought the colour that spread across Ruth's cheeks was probably from the emotion of what she had just shared with him. "I've imagined so much worse."

Ruth couldn't look up. _Truth. There was no need to tell him the whole truth, was there? I was a spy, George. A spook, and the man I love is the head spook. The people I worked for lied and pretended and yes, killed people, all in the name of Her Majesty's Security Services. And we lost friends, people we loved, and still we did the work..._

"Ruth?"

Now she met his eyes, and some of the haunted, distant look was there again.

"Ruth, is that all of it?" He frowned, and gazed at her intently. "Is that all of the truth?"

Ruth swallowed hard. _Just one more lie, and then you can get on with your life_. Again she was facing Angela Wells, and then, she was in that blue hallway with Harry. _You're a born spook, Ruth._

And like a born spook, Ruth lied. "Yes. That's all."

George smiled at her. "Then we'll never speak of it again." He felt brave, empowered by her honesty, and finally, he reached across the table and took her hand. She didn't pull it away, but let him hold it. "And when you're ready, we will begin to see if there is a way to clear you of whatever keeps you from England. I know a very good lawyer in London..." Ruth withdrew her hand, and the look on her face told him that now he had gone too far.

"No." There it was, the anger, the warning he had expected earlier. "No, George. You must promise me that you'll do nothing. I don't want to go back to England. I have a life here. You must promise."

He nodded, quickly, "Yes, yes, I promise. I'm sorry, I just thought that..."

"No," she repeated the word even more resolutely. "No."

"Alright, Ruth. I promise I won't do anything." He smiled, trying to regain some ground. "I'm glad you say you have a life here." His voice went softer, "I'm very glad to hear you say it."

* * *

It was just dusk in London, after a long day. Harry stood with Ros, looking at the man who killed Adam Carter. They despised Arkady Kachimov, and it showed in their faces, but they were trying to do the right thing.

They were sending him on for interrogation, and the interrogators would attempt to turn him, just as he had done with Lucas. He was a great prize, and would be very valuable in future battles. It was the game they played. But right now, neither of them felt like playing by the rules.

Harry couldn't still the voice he heard in his head, and it was Jo's. "What happens to Kachimov?" she had asked him just an hour ago, back on the Grid.

"He belongs to us now. That's our revenge," Harry had told her. But even as he spoke the words, they sounded hollow.

"Well, it seems to me the punishment doesn't fit the crime." Jo had looked right at him, her eyes conveying what he already knew. Adam had saved their lives, all of them, countless times. And now he was dead, and they had the man who had killed him. "Harry. He was worth more."

He'd had no answer for her. And now, standing in this deserted field, he looked over at the Russian across from him. Arkady Kachimov had lost his gamble on Lucas North. Not only had Lucas not been turned, but he was able to bring Kachimov in to MI5's custody. Harry could do with him what he willed.

Harry walked over to Arkady, wanting to be done with him as soon as possible. "Your escort will be here in a moment or two. I know you won't mind if I don't wait around to wave goodbye."

"So, this is it." Arkady was still making conversation, as he had said_, like an Englishman_. And he was doing it with a snide smile, one that Kachimov hoped proved that he wasn't beaten. Whether it was bravado or simply sarcasm, it put Harry's teeth on edge. They stood across from each other. So many years of experience between them. They both knew what the next steps were.

Harry was working very hard at keeping this exchange businesslike. What Harry truly wanted in this moment, more than anything else, was to reach his hands out and put them around Kachimov's neck. To hold them there until his last gasp, and then perhaps a little longer. Harry knew he was right on the precipice of his anger, and he understood perfectly well how easily he could simply step over into it.

But instead of giving it free rein, he pushed his anger down. This would be a humane process, an orderly one. He answered Kachimov calmly, "This is it. You won't be free, not for some time. But we'll make you as comfortable as possible."

"Till you have squeezed from me the very last piece of intelligence that I have."

"You know the game." Harry was disgusted by Kachimov's light tone, his cavalier demeanour. He wanted very badly to punch him in his smug, Russian face.

But Arkady wasn't finished. "And I bow to the better player. I congratulate you on your victory."

_Player, victory. As if this were a bloody rugby match. As if he hadn't killed one of my friends, one of my best officers, in cold blood._ Harry's anger was beginning to overtake him, and he hoped his tone offered enough warning to Kachimov to stop this ludicrous banter. "God save me from any more victories like this one."

Kachimov either didn't hear the menace in Harry's voice, or he had decided to taunt him. In any case, he brought up the one subject he should have avoided. "It's a pity about your man. Carter, wasn't it?"

This question could not be overlooked. _A pity? A fine young man is dead, his son is an orphan, and it's a bloody pity?_ "He's dead. That's not a pity. It's a crime." Harry felt the heat begin to rise in his chest. He knew he should walk away, simply remove himself from the stench of this odious man. He would make a call and tell them not to pull any punches in their interrogation. _Somehow, Arkady has to pay for what he's done..._

"I did what I had to do for my country. I'm not seeking forgiveness."

_Forgiveness? You're lucky I don't take your head off here and now, you bloody bastard._ Harry managed to keep his voice low, measured. "You'll find none."

"And you will never find rest, Harry, until you have forgiven yourself. Men like us, there is no room for remorse. Carter was a very courageous fellow, but he was a resource, and resources can be replaced. There's always another courageous fellow waiting to step into the breach."

He'd gone too far. Now the heat rose from Harry's chest and into his head, and his blood pounded there. _A resource. Adam Carter, a replaceable resource. Tell that to his son. Tell that to Jo Portman. Tell it to Ros Myers, who now stands behind me, and who loved him. Tell it to me, who has known him as a fine officer, a good man, and an irreplaceable friend. _

_Tell it to the Devil, you bastard. You deserve to die._

Not this time. Adam had said it. _Every time, we offer our people up as a sacrifice, Harry. Well, not this time._ No, not this time. As he glared at Kachimov, seeing the smile tug at the corners of his filthy mouth, he saw them all move through his field of vision, all those he'd lost. And Ruth was there, too. The one he needed most, the woman he loved with more of his heart than he had even known existed.

Harry turned without a word and walked back to Ros. "Give me your gun." He said it softly, and she responded immediately. She didn't say it out loud, but he heard her voice in his head, saying, "Yes." She handed it to him.

Harry turned again to Arkady, who saw, too late, the gun in Harry's hand.

"No!" was all Kachimov managed to say, before he saw the flash. The last thing he felt was the bullet piercing him, directly through the heart.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO**

* * *

An early December rain was falling, and the dirt roads had turned to mud. Ruth had joined George on his rounds again, this time to the western mountains, where countless families worked the land in self-sufficient solitude. George never told the people he visited that he was coming to provide medical attention, he simply stopped by to say hello. Over a cup of coffee or a meal, which were always offered, the conversation would invariably turn to a broken finger, a stomach ailment, an infected cut, or headaches.

Ruth watched in awe as George drew the information out of them, especially about the children. He would find out, without seeming to ask questions, whether they were eating well, or sleeping and playing as healthy children do. George had certainly saved the life of one six-year-old girl who had been in the throes of an extremely high fever the last time he'd stopped. This morning, she sat on his lap, rosy-cheeked, smiling, and clearly enamoured with her doctor.

The women of the mountain families had been accustomed to seeing Dr. Constantinou arrive alone for his visits, and now they raised their eyebrows and nodded to Ruth as if they shared a wonderful secret with her. They could see that the pretty, dark-haired Englishwoman was good for their kind doctor. He smiled more, this much was obvious, and his eyes seemed to hold something like love in them when he looked at her. Ruth looked shyly back at the women, feeling rather like a prize horse they were assessing. She smiled, thinking she wouldn't have been surprised if they'd asked her to show them her teeth. George belonged to all of them, and it was clear that Ruth needed to be worthy of him.

The truth was, on days like this one, Ruth wished she could be worthy of George. Sometimes she felt it would be so much easier if she could simply love him. She was certain no one in these mountains would understand why she didn't. How could she explain to anyone here how she felt about Harry? He and MI5 would be incomprehensible to these earthy, basic people.

Cyprus had its own troubles, certainly, as an island that was split down the middle and had been in conflict for so many years. But in the mountains, there was a degree of separation that kept them removed from problems in other parts of the world. They led uncomplicated lives, worked the land, loved each other, raised children and died of old age, rarely considering Al Qaeda, dirty bombs, terror cells or the threat of holocaust. It may be that without MI5, they would be affected greatly by some of these things, but for now, they were in blissful ignorance of nearly everything beyond the shores of Cyprus.

Ruth's life on the Grid was fading into a sort of dream, becoming more and more the film with each passing day. Since she'd come to Cyprus, she'd fallen into a rhythm of waking, working, swimming, walking, eating and sleeping. She knew Polis and many of her people well. The familiar faces looked back at her as one of their own now, her quiet routine giving them ease, making them forget that she was once exotic, a foreigner.

And these trips with George on his rounds were like a cool balm to Ruth's pain of being without Harry. The people of the mountains led hardworking lives, without many of the amenities Ruth had come to expect in her life. And they were happy people. They didn't complain, they didn't need therapy, and they seemed never to be bored. They took what life handed them and they made the best of it. She saw them as her teachers.

Ruth looked over at George and smiled as they bounced along the rutted roads. She peered out of the windscreen and gazed up at the sky, full of thundering clouds, and suddenly, she was overcome with a memory. She had done the same when she and Harry had sat outside the safe house on the day they'd driven back from Bath. Ruth had leant forward and looked up at the building in just this way, and she realised now that the prospect on that day was no less ominous than the one she was seeing now.

Ruth fell back into the seat, immediately lost in the memory. How happy they had been in Bath. It was the most innocent time she and Harry had spent together after knowing they loved each other. Two people, hopeful and in love, on a week-end that held only the obstacle of keeping a simple secret. Ruth turned her head toward the truck's side window, watching the rain slide in rivulets across the sodden, green landscape. She did it to be alone with her thoughts, but also so that George couldn't see her, in case her eyes should fill, as they always wanted to do when she remembered Bath.

Before Ruth could stop the feeling, she had travelled there, and she was again lying in Harry's arms after they'd made love for the first time. A slight chill went down her neck, and her breath caught. It was probably the happiest moment of her life, and now Ruth thought she might never know that happiness again. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself the luxury of imagining the feel of his skin, the touch of his lips on her cheek, his voice soft and resonant, _I love you, Ruth, I'll always love you_... _Oh, Harry, why can't you just leave me bloody well alone ..._

"Ruth? Did you hear what I said?" George was speaking, and Ruth blinked quickly to release a tear that she caught with the palm of her raised hand.

"Sorry?" She still couldn't look at him, and George knew, as he always did, that it had taken hold of her again. There didn't seem to be a pattern to these episodes, but George thought it was almost as if Ruth left her body behind while her mind journeyed. George knew that Ruth went to the other man, the one she still loved, and he tried not to take these moments personally. It was never as if she were leaving him, but rather that she was being drawn almost against her will to another place.

George sighed softly, trying not to let into his voice the impatience he suddenly felt. "I was saying that I think we should stop at the vineyard and see if this blows over. It's still a long way over dirt roads to town. Do you mind?"

She forced a smile, and her voice went up just a notch too high. "No, not at all." And then, lower, getting hold of herself, she said, genuinely, "Yes, let's go there. I'd like to see Christina."

* * *

Harry and Ros sat across from the Home Secretary over a breakfast tray of tea and scones. It was Ros' first meeting with Nicholas Blake as the new "head girl," as Richard Dolby had called her. She was being uncharacteristically demure, but Harry knew that look. She was simply watching and waiting.

Blake asked them the current threat level. Harry answered in the only way he honestly could. "Severe."

Ros and Lucas had gotten word from an asset in Pakistan's Interservices Intelligence Bureau that there was something spectacular brewing. It would start with a "waterfall," a huge increase of rumours, threats, and spikes in internet chatter. A terror cell, led by a man named Nadif, was planning a number of suicide bombings. But, according to their intel, that would only be for the purpose of deflecting attention from a more important cell, which would come after. Ben was posing as one of the bombers in the first group, and Harry was anticipating the emergence of the second cell.

After hearing the word _severe_, Blake had frowned across his desk at them. "Can we give the glass a little tap? Take it down to moderate, or lower?"

Harry looked at him in astonishment. "You want us to reduce the feel-bad factor?" He liked Blake, but politicians in general were appalling, and even a good man such as the Home Secretary wasn't immune from the pitfalls of public life. Blake proceeded to order Harry to arrest Nadif and shut down the first cell, effectively forcing MI5 to relinquish its only possible route to finding the more important group.

Harry shook his head, and spoke firmly. "You can't believe for a second that I'll allow you to do this."

The Home Secretary did believe it, and he was standing fast. "We're going to downgrade the threat level because the general public needs some good news."

"Then arrange a royal wedding." It was impossible for Harry to keep the clipped sarcasm from his voice.

Impatiently, Blake said, "Harry…"

Now it was Harry's turn to issue an ultimatum. "We stay on Nadif, and my officer remains undercover until operational reasons dictate otherwise. Or else, get Nigel out there … " Harry inclined his head toward Blake's assistant beyond the door, " … to take charge of national security. Come on, Ros."

Harry stood and walked out of the door, but he had to stifle a smile as he heard Ros say in her sweetest voice, "He always walks a little taller after a haircut."

Ros caught up to him in the corridor. "Nicely done, Harry. Winning friends in high places, as always."

He turned to her, grimacing slightly, "It seems to be what I do. And speaking of haircuts, you won't guess who I met at the barber." To her raised eyebrows, Harry said, "Richard Dolby."

She grimaced. "Ah. Bit early in the morning to have to endure a conversation with that pompous arse, wasn't it?"

Harry nodded. "He told me he'd had a call from the other firm, long distance, on the red phone." Harry opened the door for her to step out into the early December cold. "He sniffed at me, and said they'd told him that their local manager had gone AWOL. Then he asked me if I'd heard anything about it."

Ros took a deep breath. _Kachimov_. "And what did you say?"

"I sniffed back at him, and said, 'Afraid not.'"

"Convincingly, I hope."

Harry tilted his head at her. "You doubt my ability to persuade? I believe I handled it with only a slight blush." He turned to her, seriously. "And thanks, Ros. I'm very glad it was you out there in that field with me."

"All for one, Harry. We stick together." She turned to go to her car. "See you back on the Grid."

* * *

Almost before Ruth and George had dried off, Christina had hot tea in front of them. The rain on the roof was loud now, and Ruth felt that the storm was just beginning to gather steam. As she looked out from the portico, she could see small rivers forming between the rows of grapevines, joining together into larger ones and carrying leaves and dirt down the hillside.

Christina had already asked them three times if they were hungry, and as they had been given the hospitality of food at every stop along the way, both Ruth and George raised their hands and groaned. "Please, no," Ruth laughed, taking Christina's hand and motioning for her to sit, "No more food. I'm stuffed." Christina sat, but she was a woman who never seemed entirely comfortable unless she was doing something, so she popped up again within moments.

Christina went toward the kitchen, saying, "I have peas to shell for dinner, and I think I'll get a cup of tea, too." She inclined her head toward Ruth, asking her to join her. Ruth smiled at George as if to say, _do you mind?_, and when he smiled back and shook his head, she picked up her tea and stood, making her way through the stone archway. "I'll help you." She found Christina at the stove, re-heating the water in an old tin kettle.

Ruth leant back on the tiled counter. "How are you, Christina? Panos is well? And the children?" Ruth took a grateful sip of the hot tea, and set it on the counter. "It's been weeks since I've seen you."

"Panos is well, yes. Although he worries day and night about the wine, whether there is enough sugar, the proper ratio of acid and ferment, if its colour is right." She raised her eyebrows at Ruth with a wicked smile, "If he only worried as much for me."

Ruth smiled back at her. "He loves you more than life itself, and you know it."

Christina shrugged, but there was a twinkle in her eye, "Ah, yes, I believe he does, at that." The water boiled, and she poured it into her cup. Then she took a large wooden bowl filled with pea pods from the sink , and another empty one from the counter. Putting them both on the long harvest table, Christina said, "Galen still has problems with his numbers." She looked back at Ruth, "It would be wonderful if you could come work with him again. He understood when you showed him, and what he's studying now makes no sense to me. Nico, I think, you see as much as I do." She motioned Ruth over to the table, "Kineta is true to her name and is never still, and Magus has his nose always in his books, as ever."

Ruth joined her in shelling the peas. A very satisfying process, she thought. Bend the pod, hear its pop, then run a thumb through it as the tiny, bright green spheres fall into the bowl. Ruth said, softly, "You have a very good life, Christina."

Christina's eyes took on the wisdom that Ruth so often saw there. "A life you could have too, Ruth."

Ruth looked up at her, and sighed, but she said nothing.

Christina shook her head. "And still you don't love him. How can that be? You're the envy of many women on this island, do you know that? He is quite a, how do you say, a _catch_."

Ruth looked down again. "It's not his fault, Christina."

Christina laughed, "Oh, I _know_ that! It's you, and you alone, who stops this." She lowered her voice, and paused in her task for a moment. "He loves you so, Ruth. What else can he do?"

Ruth had never talked with Christina, even in the most abstract terms, about Harry, although she had longed to. She thought somehow that Christina would understand, as she understood everything. She assumed that George had told her what little Ruth had told him, but now she ventured further than she ever had. "There is someone ... someone else ... or there _was_ ..."

Christina's eyes softened. "Ah, yes, the man you still love." She moved closer and looked into Ruth's eyes, speaking softly. "And where is he? Is he sitting out on the porch right now wondering how to make you happy? Does he think about ways to make you smile every day? Is he ready, on a moment's notice, to pledge his life to you? Because if not, Ruth, there is someone on the porch who is."

Ruth's eyes began to fill, and Christina reached her hand up to touch her cheek. "Oh, _agapite_, how I wish I could help you make this decision. But only you can know when to let go."

Ruth caught a tear with the back of her hand. "It's ... complicated, Christina."

Christina handed her a kitchen towel and then sat back, shaking her head again. "Love is never complicated unless we make it so. You love a man who is very far away from you. Does he have a telephone? A hand to write with? Legs to get him to an aeroplane?"

Ruth had to give a pitiful laugh at the way Christina asked the questions. It did sound simple when she put it that way. "Yes, but ..."

Leaning forward, Christina took Ruth's hands over the bowl. "No _but_, Ruth. That's where you make it complicated. We all make choices, every minute of every day. This man, even if he does love you as much as you love him, is making a choice not to come to you." Seeing the look in Ruth's eyes, Christina softened her tone slightly. "I know that's hard to hear, but it's the truth. Whether it's his job, or his life in England, or something you don't know, he chooses every minute not to come to you, Ruth." Christina paused. "And George would spend every one of those minutes with you, if you would only let him. You are choosing to be unhappy."

Ruth caught another tear with the towel and looked up, speaking softly, "It's fading, Christina. Slowly, but it's moving away from me. I told George that I will always love that man, and I will, but his life and mine won't mesh somehow." Her tears were stopping now, and as she talked more about it, her emotions calmed. "I used to think that we were destined to be together, but as time goes by, I'm starting to think that it's the opposite. It's as if no matter how hard we tried to be together, something kept driving us apart. We would break down a wall, and another would rise up in its place ... "

Christina was silent, letting Ruth talk. What neither of them heard was George, who stood on the other side of the wall. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but now that he was here, he couldn't stop himself. He was hearing more of Ruth's heart in this short conversation with his sister than she had shared with him in over six months of companionship. He couldn't seem to make his feet move to take him away from it. He stood, holding his breath, as Ruth continued.

"I care for George, Christina. And I believe I love Nico, because my heart allows me to." Ruth took a sip of her tea. "I sometimes imagine what a life with them would be, in a house overlooking the ocean, with a pool so that I could swim, an herb garden ... "

Christina laughed. "You imagine well, Ruth. It's yours, if you want it. George spends his money on nothing. I think I recognise that sweater he's wearing today from when we were in our 20's."

Ruth laughed too. "Ah, yes, what did he say to me one day? _Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without_."

Laughing again, Christina said, "_That_ was our grandfather. A wonderful influence for country people. You've read _Walden_?" To Ruth's look, Christina said, "Oh, that surprises you?" She said it without rancour, matter-of-factly. "George and I had a very rich education, Ruth. We could both be in London if we had chosen it, but the city doesn't call to us." Christina looked around at the warm country kitchen, and then out of the window toward the vineyard. "_This_ calls to us. It's home."

Ruth said simply, and with absolute conviction, "It's wonderful."

Christina leant forward, her eyes narrowing in her intensity. "It's within your grasp, Ruth. Reach out and take it." Christina held her gaze for a moment, and then went back to shelling the peas. She let Ruth sit in silence for a time as they both worked.

_Within my grasp. Reach out and take it_. Ruth was suddenly reminded of the carousel. Was this the proverbial brass ring? Everything did seem simple and uncomplicated in this warm kitchen with a friend like Christina. She'd been right in everything she'd said. Ruth was making a choice to be unhappy, and an alternative to unhappiness was within her reach.

George wasn't her passion, but passion, and all that went with it, hadn't endured. In fact, it had threatened to engulf her completely. It had almost killed her. Harry was the stuff of her girlhood dreams, her one true love, the name that would be on her lips until the day she died. But Christina was right. Harry made a choice every day not to come to her, and no matter how complicated that choice was, he had clearly made it.

During the weeks after Adam's death, Ruth had thought fleetingly that Harry might be moved by the loss of his friend to come and find her. That he might have taken stock, weighed the brevity of life against the compelling nature of the Service, and come up with a good enough reason to make Ruth his choice. But when there was no word from Harry, even after she had sent her note to Malcolm, Ruth felt she was losing the final strand of hope.

George was safety, security, constancy, peace. All she had to do was move toward him.

Christina smiled at the look on Ruth's face. "You're thinking very hard. That's good."

Ruth looked up, and Christina could see that the sadness was gone from her eyes. There was a resolution there, a plan, it seemed. "Thank you, Christina. You're a very sensible woman."

Christina laughed, "Panos would not agree. He thinks I am ruled far too completely by my feelings." She brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "But I'm glad if I've helped you at all."

"You have, very much. And I might be ... ready to ... think about ... about being happy again." Ruth was having trouble choosing her words. She felt as if she were stepping off a cliff, and it was so much just to say it out loud.

Smiling, Christina patted Ruth's hand gently. "Just let him know it's a possibility, Ruth, and George will do the rest."

Ruth immediately felt overcome by an attack of nerves. And not just nerves, but a sense of betrayal, as if Harry were sitting right here at this table, watching her. She tried to imagine his eyes, the hurt that would be in them if he could see her weighing the possibility of allowing another man into her life. And suddenly, Ruth didn't know if this was a decision she could make.

She looked up quickly at Christina, her eyes now empty of the resolution that had been there just moments ago. "I still need time... "

Christina leant back and picked up her tea to take a sip. She could see the changes that were happening in Ruth. But she saw that the possibility was now there, and Christina knew it would be up to nature to take its course. She smiled at Ruth kindly. "Well, my brother is a _very_ patient man."

As they continued with their work, George stepped quietly away from the doorway, feeling only slightly guilty for the time he had spent there, listening. He wanted nothing more than to walk into the kitchen and take her in his arms, to tell her that he loved her, and that he would keep her from the pain that seemed to be her constant companion.

But George _was_ a very patient man. And unlike the man who had walked toward the doorway, the man that walked away from it had hope.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE**

* * *

Through his open door Harry could hear the broadcast from Parliament. Ros sat on the Grid, watching, as she finished the day's reports.

As he often did, Harry slipped his finger under his mouse mat and pulled out the note, reading it again. It's edges were beginning to fray a bit, but the emotion from which it was written still managed to take him back to that night. _"NO. If you love her. NO."_

Harry looked at the small number on his calendar. One hundred and eighty-two days since he had kissed Ruth goodbye in Dover. Six months, half a year. It was a long time, perhaps so long that no one cared anymore, maybe so long that even the Redbacks had forgotten. Perhaps just a letter, safely sent... Harry rubbed his face roughly. _Dangerous thoughts_. He read the note one more time before returning it gently to its home under the mat.

He allowed his eyes to gravitate out to the Grid. Things had changed, as they always managed to do, and Ruth's desk was no longer in the same place, nor could he even call it Ruth's desk. Ros wanted a more central set-up, one that facilitated better communication. Although Harry had made a slight protest, he'd had no good reason to offer, other than that he could no longer look out and remember. And as he'd been unwilling to share that reason with Ros, she had turned away, put her hands on her hips, and begun directing the move.

Harry sighed. How he missed Ruth. It didn't get any better, and by now, he didn't reasonably expect it would. He'd reverted to his old way of being: private, taciturn, resigned to a life alone. But the monumental difference was that he'd been given a taste of the sort of happiness he'd never known before, and its removal had left him unable to find true peace in his old way of being.

He needed so much to talk to Ruth. Shooting Kachimov had been satisfying in the moment, but something about having done it was eating away at him. The only other person he could talk to would be Ros, but that was simply an impossibility. Ros was his senior officer now, and Harry needed to show unwavering confidence in his operational decisions, spontaneous or not.

Harry closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. He could still see Ruth across from him. Grilling him with questions for the DG job, standing firm as he angrily swept a stack of files off his desk and onto the floor, her chin quivering slightly as he told her there were no friends in this business. She would help him understand, with her perfect combination of good sense, intelligence and open-hearted compassion. Harry thought she was the only one who could help him. She certainly was the only one he wanted to help him.

The Parliament broadcast broke through his thoughts again, and Harry heard Nicholas Blake's strong and confident voice. Harry stood, needing diversion, and walked out to the Grid to Ros. It seemed the Home Secretary had found another way to up the feel-good factor.

"_A national holiday would celebrate being British. The things that bring us together as a nation. A nation with many differences but with shared core values. A belief in democracy, in justice, and in human rights."_

"He means it, you know." Ros turned around as Harry walked up behind her. "It's not all bullshit to him. He actually thinks being British is an honour and a privilege." Harry perched on the desk next to her. "Bless."

Ros paused for a moment, and then asked, "Is everything well with you, Harry?"

Harry looked over at her, aware that he must have carried his mood with him from his office. "Couldn't speak to everything," he said, with a tilt of his head. Harry had to admit that he felt somewhat grateful that he'd told Ros about Ruth. It gave them a sort of shorthand, and at least they started on the same page together. Ros had lost Adam, Harry had lost Ruth. They were each missing ... someone.

"You just seem ... " Then Ros came right to the point, the other point, and put her finger on what else was bothering Harry. " ... since Kachimov ... "

"Since I murdered Kachimov." Harry said it in as harsh a way as he could muster. He could see the look in Ros' eyes, and it was a look that was asking if he was losing his nerve. Harry knew it wouldn't do to have Ros thinking along those lines, so he spoke lightly now, without emotion. "I would have done the same for any of you, and I haven't lost a moment's sleep since." _Except, of course, for last night and several nights previously_.

Harry hoped his power to persuade was still intact from this morning, although he knew Ros Myers was a much more difficult and intuitive target than Richard Dolby. Then, suddenly, Harry wondered if this conversation was less about him, and more about any feelings Ros was having. So he asked her. "You? Regrets?"

"Too few to mention." _Ah_, Harry thought. _The ice-cold Ros. When in doubt, quote Sinatra and move on._

Harry took her lead, and spoke with a confidence he didn't entirely feel. "It was the right thing."

"The manual says we should have kept him alive, same as we're doing Nadif."

"We know what the manual says, Ros. But sometimes you have to send your enemy a message in the only language they understand. Blood for blood." Harry held her gaze for a moment, and then he stood and took a deep breath. He looked at the reports in front of her. "Almost finished?"

Ros looked down at the stack of papers. "Nearly."

Harry walked toward his office to get his coat. He raised his voice so she could hear him. "You've already impressed the boss with your dedication." He returned, pulling on his overcoat. "Don't stay long."

Walking through the pods, Harry knew what he had to do. Home, food and water for Scarlet, a quick dinner for himself, and then a scotch, or perhaps two, as he had a conversation with Ruth. Not with her lovely face where he could touch it, but the next best thing. He would record a letter, and she would help him understand.

* * *

The rain wouldn't let Ruth sleep. No, that wasn't entirely true. Ruth's thoughts wouldn't let Ruth sleep, and the rain wasn't helping.

She had managed to doze for a few hours, and when she opened her eyes and realised she wasn't in her flat, she'd had a moment of terror, like the morning she'd awakened in the room that was her Yalta prison. Instead, it was a warm, cosy room, with a soft bed piled high with feather pillows, and a Cyprus vineyard just outside her window.

According to Panos, the roads were virtually impassable, so this was a time to sit tight and wait for the mudslides to cease. It was Saturday night, and neither Ruth nor George were expected at the hospital on Sunday. Ruth didn't even have a cat to go home to, so it made perfect sense for her to accept the hospitality of a spare room, a hot bath, and some of Christina's rather-too-large but very soft flannel pyjamas. They had snowflakes on them, which seemed so out of place that Ruth didn't have energy to do more than laugh when they were offered.

She and George had found room for food, of course, when faced with the delicious table set by Christina. Four children, four adults and a wonderful night of laughter. Ruth felt part of a family here. In fact, she loved being invited into this family.

She had helped Galen with his algebra, struggling to remember the formulas, and had worked with Nico on a speech he was due to give on Monday. She'd held little Kineta until she'd finally fallen asleep, and then kissed her gently as she laid her into bed. Before leaving her room, Ruth had brushed the backs of her fingers on Kineta's flushed cheek, and the softness of the girl's skin had taken her breath away.

After the children were asleep, Panos had brought out an assortment of wines for tasting, and they'd all gotten slightly drunk as they compared, contrasted, criticised and praised. And laughed. What good people these were, and their happiness was contagious.

But as she lay awake later, all of that wine made it necessary for Ruth to find her way back down the hall to the bathroom. She peeked out of her door, first to the right, then to the left. There was a small lamp on a table giving off a dull glow, probably for this very reason, and Ruth was grateful for it as she found the bath at the end of the hall, hoping the noise of the pipes wouldn't wake anyone.

As she walked down the hall toward her bedroom, she thought perhaps another glass of wine would help her get back to sleep, and in any case, she loved watching the rain. So she turned instead to the large family room, and then out to the porch. It wasn't a warm night, but it wasn't cold either, and her bare feet were comfortable on the smooth stone surface.

The bottles of wine and the four glasses were still on the outside table. Ruth smiled, remembering the lively conversation, and she sat down, reaching for her glass. She poured from a bottle of what she thought was the Pinot Noir, and then sat back, listening to the drumbeat of the rain on the curved terra cotta tiles of the roof.

And before she could stop herself, before she even knew she was doing it, Ruth faced toward England. And then, Ruth got angry.

Here she was, in the middle of Paradise, being offered a life beyond the dreams of most people, and she couldn't keep herself from wanting Harry. A man who had clearly forgotten her, who had chosen his job over the woman he claimed was the love of his life. Christina had gone right to the core of it. _And where is he? Does he have a telephone? A hand to write with? Legs to get him to an aeroplane? Love is never complicated unless we make it so. He chooses every minute not to come to you._

Ruth finished the wine in one swallow, and reached for the same bottle, but then moved her hand to the one next to it_. This time, a Sirah_. She filled the glass, sat back, and got angrier. And for the first time, Ruth started thinking of what else could be keeping him away. What if it's not just her safety he worries about, but his own? _Harry's scared. I got too close, and all it took was some time apart for him to realise it._

His life had to be simpler without her. No worries about secrets, no distractions, none of those pesky sentimental questions that could be so annoying to the heartless bastard he needed to be. What had he said to her? _How do I do my job and love you at the same time?_ What if that had gotten to be too much for him, finally, and it was easier to go back to the Harry Pearce whose life had no complications?

Another long sip of wine. _Yes, this will help me sleep_. Harry would be sleeping now, alone in his uncomplicated bed, in his uncomplicated house, living his sodding uncomplicated life. Ruth thought how peaceful it must be for him. A long day on the Grid, followed by the necessary dose of single malt, a tuck behind Scarlet's ears, and uncomplicated sleep. _He's probably blissfully and bloody uncomplicatedly contented._

Ruth reached out again, but this time, she thought it was the Sauvignon Blanc. She smiled, remembering the laughter that followed her question of the appropriateness of tasting a white so closely on the heels of a red, and from the same glass. Panos had said something in Greek that she understood to mean that at that point he could drink it from his shoe and appreciate it.

Panos and Christina. Two people so naturally and completely in love that there seemed no effort to them. They spoke truthfully to each other, but never harshly. They argued, but never bickered. And by the way they touched, Ruth could imagine they made love with an abandon and an honesty that bound them to each other in such a way that it made a discussion of forever unnecessary.

Ruth felt her anger begin to subside, and in its place came sadness. That was how she'd felt with Harry, making love. But it hadn't been enough for forever, and her heart was so broken by that knowledge that she almost couldn't breathe. In mute, futile despair, Ruth felt the tears start, and as she watched the rain come down in torrents, she felt she had so much sadness inside her that she could do the same.

And then, not just tears, but sobs. Ruth held her arms around her middle, wrapped in snowflake flannel in the middle of a Cyprus vineyard, and she grieved for Bath, and Paris, and Dover ferries, and for Harry. Most of all, for Harry. The tears ran down her cheeks like the rain splashing to the stone surface of the porch.

She sat crying that way for what felt like a long time, until suddenly she wasn't sitting anymore. She had been lifted from her chair, and now she was in George's arms, his chest bare and warm from sleep, his hands stroking her hair, his voice whispering, "No. No more. This has to stop." And she agreed with him. It had to stop, because she couldn't stand the pain of it anymore. There was no place for the pain to go, no solution for it, no answer to all of her questions. Yes, it had to stop.

Ruth put her arms around George, and cried, holding him tightly, so grateful for the contact, for the tenderness of his hand on her head, not really minding the strange feel of the hair on his chest, not bothered by his voice in her ear, familiar but new in its closeness. She lifted her head, needing even in the pale light to see him, needing to be sure she wasn't pretending he was Harry.

She wanted the reality of George, the starkness of the differences between him and Harry, in height, in colouring, voice, face, lips. Ruth reached her hand up and ran her fingers across his lips, and then, she needed to feel the difference, so she pulled his head toward her and she kissed him.

So different, and, no, not nearly enough. But then she pushed herself further, willing herself not to compare, telling herself she had better be satisfied with this, because otherwise there was no future for her in this world of men and women. It would have to be enough, or she would join Inessa in the Square, and nothing would ever make her happy again.

She parted her lips and asked for all of him. She could feel, even through too much wine, how much he loved her, and she basked in it. Ruth needed to feel loved, to feel wanted, to feel as if she mattered to someone. She got all of that and more, but deep inside her was a growing sense of despair, because she knew her feelings couldn't match his. This was nothing like kissing Harry, it didn't even fall within the same universe.

Her need was engaged, but not her heart. She wanted the warmth of him, his protective arms around her, and she wanted his need for her. But she didn't love him, and no matter how hard she tried, Ruth knew, without a doubt, that she never would.

* * *

_My dear Ruth,_

_What are you doing tonight? It's the question I ask every night, and my imagination supplies answers that I sometimes wish it hadn't. Over six months apart and not a word from me -- I have to wonder if you've given up on us._

_That was my hope at first, that you would forget me and move on. But now I find I waver between altruistically wanting you happy, and selfishly wanting you to miss me and find me impossible to replace. My rational mind says that time, and only time, will tell. That assumes, however, that I'm in firm possession of my rational mind._

_Whatever you're doing, all I can think of is how much I need you tonight. Your good sense, your ability to comprehend life's complexities, your love for me, your forgiveness. Most of all, your forgiveness. I'll just come out with it, because it will be hard for you to hear. I've killed an unarmed man in cold blood. _

_It was an impulse, driven by anger and a need for revenge, and I must understand it before I can forgive myself. It happened several weeks ago, but I seem unable to make peace with it. I'm hoping that talking with you will help me. You would do that for me if you were here. _

_His name was Arkady Kachimov, and he was the one responsible for Adam's death. An eye for an eye was the simple equation that I wished to apply, but it feels woefully lacking in equality as I sit here now by a crackling fire, and Arkady lies somewhere in the ground, still and cold. Can I be convinced that I was avenging Adam, or did I do it for myself? That's the question I keep asking myself. Thanks to Ros' complicity, I'm in no danger of consequences other than those meted out by my own conscience. But my conscience is being unusually hard on me tonight._

_This is not the first time, certainly, that I've set about the task of justifying the taking of a life, but it's never seemed so layered a process. What's different? If I were looking to place blame, I could hold you responsible for opening my heart, my love. It opened to love you, and now remains unlocked, vulnerable to attacks of guilt such as the one that preys upon me now. _

_Tonight my internal interrogation is more harsh, and my questions are more complex and infinitely harder to answer. I need to understand why there seemed no other option for me in that moment. I think again of the conversation you and I had on the way home from Bath, when I asked you how I was supposed to perform my job with the necessary level of detachment whilst I loved you so deeply. That question is entering my thoughts again, and although I firmly believe I can both love you and do my job, this desperate need to justify my actions makes me fear that I may be losing my nerve. _

_If I close my eyes and put myself back there, I can hear Arkady calling Adam a "resource," and I know that it was that word that marked the end of my rational thought. "Resources can be replaced," he said, and I could only think about how absolutely irreplaceable Adam was. And still is. _

_But now, as I reflect, I know that every person I've given the order to kill, such as those civilians on the Tehran train, were also irreplaceable. Unique, vibrant, loving, passionate, dedicated people with their potential not yet realised, just like Adam. They had no less value because I didn't know them as well._

_I once told you that we have no friends here, just colleagues we would die for. That was a brash statement from a man who knew better. Bill Crombie was my friend, and I lost him. It broke me for a while, and I told myself friendship had no place in this work. Adam Carter was my friend, and I've lost him, too. You are my love and my best friend, and I can only hope that you're not lost to me. Saying I won't care doesn't make it so. It only makes it hidden, a secret, something to keep concealed from the world._

_But I can't lie to you, and it's to you that I reach out now. If I'm telling the unvarnished truth, I'll tell you that I killed Arkady Kachimov because I saw myself in his eyes. I looked in a mirror, aware that I deal every day with "resources," the people I send out to do dangerous work. Just because one of those "resources" happened to be my friend, or because one of them happens to be the woman I love more than I ever imagined was possible, makes it no different. _

_I had to kill Arkady Kachimov because I couldn't bear to look at myself._

_As I listened to him speak, I felt myself spiralling into a sort of madness. I gave in to an impulse that I've resisted countless times. Truly evil people have escaped my wrath because I've done the right thing, I've followed protocols, I've been the correct officer. How many times have I wanted to take that final step as someone taunted me, smiled at me, after they had committed the most heinous, horrible acts? Things that I couldn't possibly recount here, things I couldn't have imagined in my worst nightmares. _

_Well, not this time. This time I was not the correct officer. This time, I was simply a man with a gun in his hand, a man who had lost someone he cared about._

_Arkady Kachimov was suddenly the reflection of what is worst about this job. We send people out into a dangerous world and ask them to do heroic things. Sometimes they succeed, sometimes they fail. Adam succeeded at saving many lives. Unfortunately, he couldn't also save his own, but he made that choice. In fact, he chose it even when I told him to ditch the car, even after I gave him permission to fail. How is that the fault of Arkady Kachimov?_

_The lofty word I held as I pulled the trigger was "justice." But as I see your face before me, your sad eyes downcast, you're shaking your head. I would receive no sanction from my good Ruth. You would say that justice is achieved with the time and deliberation of careful thought, and that revenge is retaliation, hot-tempered, quick, unyielding. You would be right. _

_We all wanted revenge, every last one of us. Too many are gone, each a personal loss. In Malcolm's eyes, it was Colin. In Jo's, it was Adam. In my eyes, my greatest loss is you, my love. _

_So I suppose Arkady Kachimov was a man who signified our helplessness, our inability to save the ones we love. My helplessness. And a symbol of everything that's wrong with the work we do. And apart from that, he was not a good person. Although this is probably not a rationale that will satisfy you, my love, it does satisfy me, and I'm grateful to you for listening._

_And since I know it won't satisfy you, I ask for the next best thing. I ask you, my moral compass, for forgiveness. Your good opinion is more precious to me than nearly anything I can imagine._

_I love you so dearly, still. I hope you still love me._

_Yours always,_

_Harry_


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR**

* * *

Ruth pulled away from George and tried to smile at him, more out of her natural sense of politeness than anything else. The porch was still in the dusky shadows of early morning, so he was unable to see her clearly, and she was grateful that he wasn't able to read the subtleties of her face. Ruth was still a tiny bit drunk, but she was in complete possession of her ability to judge what had just happened.

She had hoped so much to enjoy that kiss. Her anger had made her want to thumb her nose at Harry Pearce's lopsided idea of love, and her sadness had left her in need. Life would have been so simple if there had been rockets going off in her head as she kissed George, but it was a kiss, and only that. Not unpleasant, but something informed by memory and mechanics rather than passion.

Even now, as she slowly pushed away from George, Ruth could feel the tears beginning to spring to her eyes at the loss. As if she had known the intricate, dusty flavour of a fine wine and had now been given something bland and tasteless as a substitute. And added to that was the knowledge that she could never have that wine again. She was left to a future filled with only remembering its complexities.

It wasn't George's fault, and he was her friend, so she not only felt her own loss, she felt her friend's loss as well. She felt sorry that the one George loved could never love him. She'd wished better for him.

"Ruth ... I... " He held her arms for as long as he could, until she had moved beyond his reach. Of course he had only one thing to say. The words that had been on his lips for so many months, the words he'd almost blurted out scores of times. The words that, with her kiss, Ruth had given him permission to speak. " … I love you."

Before she could stop herself, she said, softly, "Don't." And then she put her head in her hands and the tears started again, because that was the word she had said to Harry on the dock. _Harry, please don't_.

Was she forever to be stopping men from speaking their hearts? Because now she wanted to go back, to give Harry that chance again as the boat waited. To tell him to say whatever was on his mind, to ask her to marry him, to ask her anything. The bloody boat could have waited all day and all night if it had to. Right now, Ruth longed for those words, for any words from Harry.

And would there be a time in the future when she would wish that she had let George speak? Would she push George away now, and be alone later in her misery, thinking, _if only_? _If only I had moved back into his arms and said yes, George, love me, and I'll be grateful for it_.

She didn't have the chance to move back to him, because George couldn't stand the helplessness of watching her cry without going to her. He pulled her to him again, but now he held her tighter, as if somehow he could protect her from the depth of the pain she was feeling, as if he were rescuing her from drowning, his strong arms in complete control of her slack, shuddering body.

"Oh, God, Ruth..." George spoke into her hair, softly, soothing, " ...oh, so much pain, my Ruth..."

"No!" Suddenly she pushed violently away from him. Her face was contorted, anger mixing with the tears streaking down her flushed cheeks, "Don't call me that! _He_ called me that ..."

Finally, George gave his own anger free rein, "Well, he's not here, is he? _Where_ is he, this man you love so much? Why does he let you feel this pain?" George pounded his chest, "_I'm_ here! Right here in front of you, Ruth. And I love you." As his anger subsided, George sighed, and spoke more softly, "I love you." Exhausted, he sat heavily into one of the chairs at the table.

"I _know_." Ruth spoke softly too, but her voice still had a sharp edge. She knew how unfair she was being, but she couldn't help herself, because she felt Harry _was_ here. He might as well be sitting at the table across from George, and she couldn't bear to look at the two of them together. She turned away, standing just inches from the edge of the roof, feeling the splash of the cold rain on her bare feet, seeing the waterfalls that ran from the roof above to the tiles below.

"I won't wait forever, Ruth," George said. It was spoken through strong emotion, but it was an uncompromising statement, and she knew it was true. _It's within your grasp. Reach out and take it_.

"I know that, too." Ruth still couldn't turn around. She wasn't crying anymore, and her breath was slowly returning. She closed her eyes and visualised that house again, the one above the ocean, with the pool and the herb garden.

She tried to imagine a new life for herself, away from Harry, away from London, from the Grid. A life here. For just a flicker of a moment, she saw the house on the hill again. She saw herself there with George and Nico, with Christina, Panos, and the children coming for dinner. Harry wasn't there. It was only for just a moment, and then it was gone.

"George ... I ..." She turned to tell him that she had seen it, but the chair was empty. _I won't wait forever, Ruth_.

She stood for a time, alone, shivering, knowing she had a decision to make. Then Ruth walked quietly into the house and back to her room.

* * *

After recording another letter to Ruth, Harry had a dream. One of those flying dreams that he'd heard about, and it was both exhilarating and terrifying. In his dream, he'd flown to her, watching the endless sea move below him until he was suddenly on the beach where they'd walked together on Cyprus.

He was barefoot, and could feel the sand between his toes. He looked up, and there was Ruth, no less beautiful than Aphrodite, smiling at him from some distance. He was there to marry her. She wore the white dress and the flowers in her hair, and he could see her raise her face deliciously to the warmth of the sun. She was tanned and achingly happy. He imagined taking her in his arms, kissing her, and feeling her hair brush across his face in the light breeze.

They started walking toward each other, but they seemed to be getting no closer. He broke into a run, as did she, but still the distance between them was the same. He saw her happiness dissolve into worry, then terror. The flowers flew from her hair, and tears were streaking her cheeks as she ran. He was running too fast, and he stumbled and fell, tasting the sand in his mouth, its grittiness sharp between his teeth. When he raised his head hoping to see Ruth, he was back in the jail cell from so long ago, after Cotterdam, and he was cold and alone. He looked up at the bars on the one small window and screamed, "No," as he had done that night. It echoed in a long, low wail against the confining walls, just as it had then.

Harry awakened in the early hours of the morning with that "No" still ringing in his ears, and there were tears on his pillow. The pain of missing Ruth was utterly unbearable. He lay staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily, and then, in an entirely spontaneous and emotional moment, Harry decided that he would go to Heathrow and catch the first flight that would take him to Cyprus. He had no idea what he would do when he got there, but irrationally, he imagined he might find her on that beach, waiting for him, and that they could finish his dream with him holding her in his arms.

He knew he wasn't thinking clearly, and he knew what he was planning was dangerous and slightly insane, but Harry's will seemed to be broken. He felt he had to touch her again or he would actually lose what rational mind he had left.

He got dressed, packed a small bag, and chose in his mind which legend would do the travelling. He drove to the Grid to get his passport, but as he sat at his desk and opened the drawer, Harry was abruptly assaulted with a combination of the crushing responsibility of his work, and the awareness of the small note he had written to himself. _NO. If you love her. NO._

Harry sat in the misery of indecision until the sun rose. He missed the flight he'd planned, then missed the next, and then the next. In absolute despair, he felt unable to go, but unwilling to stay, and in the end, he did nothing. Harry alternately felt himself a coward, a victim, a realist, and a villain, but at the last, he was merely the head of MI5, a man with a conscience who was desperately in love with a woman he couldn't have.

Exhausted, heartbroken, and barely able to think, Harry quietly put away his passport, turned on his computer, and pulled out the files that began his work for the day, willing them to distract him. He watched the beginnings of life on the Grid as people came through the pods, and felt simultaneously grateful and angry that he was no longer alone in his dreadful state. He had no idea how he would work, how he would string coherent thoughts together, or how he could bear to be Harry Pearce today.

* * *

"Sugarhorse." Lucas stood in Harry's doorway and spoke the word that he had suddenly remembered.

Lucas tried to swallow the feelings back, but he could still taste the water filling his throat, moving down into his lungs, choking him, a feeling like drowning, but not as merciful as drowning, as it went on and on. The memory of his torture had come back to him unbidden, but the word kept playing over in his head. _Sugarhorse_. It was what his interrogator had asked him. If he'd known what it was, at that point he might have been close to telling her, but the word meant nothing to him.

Harry repeated the word back to him, but with a question at the end. "Sugarhorse? Is that it?" He shook his head as if he was hearing it for the first time.

"That's what she said," Lucas answered. "'Tell me about Sugarhorse.' What is it?"

Harry looked straight ahead, his mind working. "No idea. Curve ball, control question, maybe?" He finally looked at Lucas, his eyebrows raised, "Nonsense, probably."

"Well, it seemed pretty important to the interrogator at the time."

"Yes, I'm sure it did."

It was hard for Lucas to accept the detached way that Harry was taking in this information. Just saying the word was painful for Lucas, and Harry's manner was cool, offhand, dismissive. Lucas controlled himself, and said, "I thought you'd want to know."

"Thank you." Harry didn't look up, letting Lucas know that this conversation was over.

Lucas turned to the door and said, "Probably not the best time." He was fighting to keep his emotions down. He'd brought Harry what he thought might be important information. And after eight years of being tortured in a Russian prison, Harry couldn't even manage to look at him?

"'When troubles come...,'" Harry said, quietly.

_And now he's quoting bloody Hamlet at me. Yes, troubles come in battalions, Harry. I've seen every one of them_. Lucas stopped at the door and turned back. "If it did mean anything, I'd like to think that I went through all that..." _For a reason. For a damned good reason_.

"Absolutely." Harry still didn't look up. As he walked back out to the Grid, Lucas could hear Arkady Kachimov's voice in his head, day after day in prison. _They don't even try to get you back, Lucas. Harry Pearce refuses to talk to us. It seems he doesn't care whether you ever return to England_...

* * *

Harry sat in silence for a long time after Lucas left him, trying to still his breathing and the fierce beating of his heart. If Harry had wished for a compelling problem to take his mind off Ruth, he couldn't have come up with a better one.

_Sugarhorse. Christ, I never thought I would hear that word spoken aloud by an officer just returned from Russia._ At just hearing the word, the adrenaline had gone through Harry like a shot and he had difficulty remaining calm. He'd been afraid to meet Lucas' eyes because he was worried that the turmoil he was going through would be too obvious.

_Sugarhorse. _No one, most especially a Russian interrogator, should have even known to ask the question. Clearly, what Harry had thought of as the Security Services' best-kept secret was no longer that.

Now Lucas wasn't the only one thinking of Kachimov. Harry's thoughts were also drifting to the Russian, but in an entirely different vein. He was regretting again that he had killed Arkady. If he hadn't, at this moment he would be getting his coat and going to him. He would sit with Kachimov in his cell and find out exactly what the Russians knew about Sugarhorse.

But that wasn't possible, so Harry decided there was another person to whom he should pay a visit. A person Harry trusted with his own life. Bernard Qualtrough.

* * *

_Something has happened_, Christina thought. The tension across the table was palpable, and it hung in the air between George and Ruth as each pushed the eggs around on their plates. Both were looking down, lost in thought, separate. _Yes, something has definitely happened_.

"More fruit?" Christina asked her brother, offering the bowl to him. He waved her away, not unkindly, but in a manner that told her he wasn't interested in anything but the fascinating prospect of the plate in front of him. She tried Ruth, who at least looked up and attempted a smile, but Christina thought perhaps Ruth hadn't slept at all, by the look in her eyes.

"Were you comfortable last night, Ruth?" Christina had a frown wrinkling the space between her eyebrows. Ruth was aware of how she and George must look to Christina, so she forced herself to brighten a bit.

"Oh, yes, very comfortable. It's a wonderful room, Christina. Thank you." Everything Ruth said seemed to be emerging from her mouth in a stilted, formal way, and Christina nearly laughed.

"Well, you are very welcome," she said, matching Ruth's formal tone, and shaking her head. Christina picked up her own plate, and stood to go to the sink. "And as I have _five_ children to get ready for church," she said, including Panos in her count with a large smile, "I will go upstairs." After rinsing her dish, she walked toward the door. "And perhaps, you two would like to talk to each other." To their silence, Christina shook her head again, and left them alone.

For some moments, they sat quietly. George was waiting for Ruth to let him know what part of last night, if any, she wished to talk about, and Ruth was weighing that very question herself. Finally, Ruth sighed, and looked up at him. He looked at her, and she could see he'd probably gotten as little sleep as she had.

All she could think to do was to apologise. "I'm sorry ..." She really was, and the sincerity in her voice had the effect of breaking through the barrier George had built since last night. His eyes softened, and now she could see the hurt there.

"Which part are you sorry about?" he said quietly. "About kissing me? Because I'm not sorry. I've wished for it." He looked back down at his plate, his voice growing even softer. "I've longed for it."

Ruth leant forward just a bit. "No, I wanted to kiss you. I needed to ..." Her voice trailed off. She didn't want to be dishonest again, but how could she tell him that she'd had to find out if she could love him? And how could she then tell him that she'd discovered she couldn't?

George saved her the deliberation. "You needed to know if you would like it. If it could make you forget him." He looked up again. "And it didn't." Now his eyes were challenging her, asking her to contradict him, to tell him he was wrong. Ruth's mind was racing, but she couldn't think of what to say, and her pause answered his question more thoroughly than any number of words could have. His eyes returned to his plate, and he said, resigned, "It didn't."

Finally, deciding to be as honest as she possibly could, Ruth found her voice. "I don't know what to do, George. I don't want to lose you, but I can't help how I feel." She waited until he looked at her, and then she engaged his eyes with her intensity. "I want so much out of life. I want a home, and love, and marriage, and security." She sat back, sounding surprised at her own words. "I think I want children."

George was feeling a glimmer of hope again. "I want those things too. I hadn't thought I wanted more children, but if it were with you …" He worried he might be saying too much, but Ruth was still there, her face open. "I want all of those things, with you, Ruth."

He shook his head, and looked down again. "But it needs to be with love. I can't do it with less than that." His eyes peered out at her from under the shadow of his dark brows, and George asked the most important question. "Do you think you can ever love me?"

Ruth reached her hand out and enclosed his. "I want to. I can't tell you how much I want to." She really meant it, and her intention was clear in her voice. "I see a house on a hill, overlooking the ocean, with a pool and …"

"And an herb garden." George coloured a bit as Ruth tilted her head, frowning slightly. "I heard you talking to Christina yesterday. I didn't mean to. I was coming into the kitchen to get more tea, and I heard you tell Christina what a good life she had, and then … that you still loved someone else … and I couldn't stop listening …" He sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have, but I've wanted so much to know your feelings. It was too hard to move …"

Now Ruth's mind was hurrying over the conversation with Christina, trying to remember exactly what she had said. He saw her look, and said, quickly, "You said nothing that you shouldn't. And really nothing that I didn't already know, except that you could see us in a house together." He smiled at her, his eyes full of love. "It made me very happy to think that. It gave me hope."

His hand remained in hers, and she made no move to release it. "I saw it last night too." Shyly, she said, "I still see it."

"Do you? Because I won't keep trying if it makes no sense." He kept his eyes on their hands for a short time, and then looked up and smiled again, this time a broader smile. "Christina was right. I am a _catch_." The word produced the desired effect, and Ruth laughed softly.

"I know you are. Any woman would be lucky to have you." Ruth sighed. "I would be lucky to have you."

He took her hand and brought it to his lips, tentatively. She didn't pull away, so he held it there as he looked at her. "Was it so terrible, that kiss?"

Ruth's eyes grew soft too. "No. Not terrible at all."

"Just not fireworks," he said, quietly. He gave her hand one more kiss, and then put it gently back on the table. "That's all right. Perhaps we can discover the fireworks." He sat back in his chair. "Did I tell you my father's parents were in an arranged marriage?"

Shaking her head, Ruth answered, "No."

George was suddenly feeling hungry, even for cold eggs. He leant forward and speared a forkful, and then he took a long sip of coffee. "Yes. She was fifteen and he was seventeen when they were promised. Before he was twenty, they were married. They've been together for sixty-two years, and I've never seen such love, such respect, between two people." He piled some of the fruit from the bowl onto his plate. "They didn't love each other when they were married, but they love each other deeply today." George looked at her. "Love can grow, Ruth."

Ruth smiled at him. He was giving her space. Generously showing his love for her by allowing her the time and the room she needed to make a decision. She was intensely grateful to him, and for a moment, she thought, perhaps love _can_ grow.

Ruth looked across from her, and Harry wasn't here now. She couldn't hear his voice or see his face in this warm Cyprus kitchen that seemed a world away from London and the Grid. Harry's absence suddenly brought her a compounded feeling of peace and pain.

She closed her eyes for just a moment, wincing with the ache of missing Harry, and when she opened her eyes and saw only George, she managed another sad smile. The smile warmed slowly, until it reached her eyes, and George saw a subtle change begin. She was opening to him, methodically unlocking the doors that had kept him at arm's length.

And in that moment, George knew that despite his brave words of not waiting forever, he would be there for Ruth for as long as it took.

Slowly, Ruth pushed her coffee cup the few inches to touch George's. "Here's to love growing. And hope." She said it bravely, taking the leap, but as she said it, she felt Harry intruding again, pushing his way into her mind. She could hear him saying _No_, and she felt not only her own pain, but Harry's as well, coursing into her body. It ran through her like a drug, nearly paralysing her, although she knew it must only show in a faint blush at her cheeks. George took her hand from the cup, lifted it, and kissed it again, this time holding it against his cheek.

As he looked at her, George said softly, "I know you can't say it, and I don't want you to, until you truly mean it. But I must say it. I love you, Ruth, so very much." He released her hand and inhaled deeply, smiling. "This is good. This is progress." He picked up his fork and began to eat again. "I will be patient." He looked up at her from under his brows, his eyes bright. "And I will keep my eye out for a house overlooking the ocean, with a pool, and an herb garden. Someday, I know, we will live there."

Now the dark brown of George's eyes deepened, and he grew more serious. He said firmly, "But you need to know that I want more than that, Ruth. Not just to live with you. I want to be with you, always. I want to marry you."

He waited to see her reaction, and it was as he expected. Her cheeks coloured and she looked down, unable to meet his eyes. George had learned so much about Ruth in the time they'd been together. He knew she was thinking, and with Ruth, thinking was a good thing. He felt his dreams were closer than ever to being realised.

Ruth was thinking, but not in the way George hoped. She was asking herself, _What have I done?_ In an instant, Ruth was overcome with guilt. And in her head were the words that now joined in the chorus with Harry's firm _No_.

_You can't marry George. You're already married_.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE**

* * *

"Guillaume? Are you hungry?" As she asked, Isabelle was going through the cupboards in the small _l'Alcove_ kitchen. She hoped he wasn't feeling a need for food, because the shelves were nearly bare. She found some biscuits that were still fresh, and arranged them on a plate.

"No, thanks, Maman, I ate breakfast. Wouldn't mind a coffee, though." Guillaume sat at the computer desk, squinting his eyes into slits at the mess his mother had made of her files.

Isabelle sighed. _I finally get my son to visit, and there's nothing to give him. Why didn't I shop?_ "Oh, my dear, no coffee either." She tried to keep her voice bright. "Tea?"

"Yes, please, but nothing fruity. What do you have?" He peered in wonder at her computer's desktop, completely filled with all types of icons, in no order whatsoever. "How do you find _anything_ on here?"

"That's why you're here, dear." She pulled a tin down from the shelf, and asked hopefully, "Earl Grey?"

"Yes. Good," Guillaume said, sounding distracted. Now Isabelle sighed with relief, her duty as a mother fulfilled. She filled the kettle and switched it on, readying the tray with cups and teabags.

Guillaume was muttering in exasperated _sotto voce_, "Folders. We need folders… "

"What, dear?"

"Folders, Maman. They organise you. I can show you how to create them, and then how to choose what you put into them. You'll find things much more easily."

The kettle boiled, and Isabelle poured the steaming water over the teabags, letting them steep. She carried the tray out to the side table, and pulled a chair up next to Guillaume. For a moment, she just looked at him in wonder. Completely grown, yet she still saw him at six years old. The furrows in his brow were the same, if slightly deeper now at thirty-one. This was the look he had as a child when drawing or reading a difficult passage in his books.

Isabelle reached up spontaneously and touched his cheek. "My smart boy."

He looked over and smiled at her with warm, patient eyes. "No longer a boy, Maman. And this …" he turned back to the screen, "… is a disaster." Despite saying he wasn't hungry, Guillaume reached for a biscuit.

Isabelle took a deep breath. "So, what do we do? The main problem is the mail. Can you look at that?"

Guillaume clicked the icon and waited for the Inbox to appear. He had plenty of time to take a sip of the hot tea and finish his biscuit. When it finally opened, he turned and looked at her incredulously. "You have over fifteen-hundred emails in your Inbox?"

"Yes?" Her face was open, questioning. "They keep sending them to me, dear. What am I to do? I've answered them all, but I can't throw them away, can I?"

Guillaume was muttering again. "Folders … ," but Isabelle was already up again and on her way to the kitchen, looking for something else.

"I remember that word, folders. Sophie told me how to do it, but she left rather quickly, and I never wrote it down." Isabelle was opening drawers and cupboard doors, searching for napkins.

Guillaume's voice changed tone suddenly, "Maman? Who is Martin Wingate?"

Isabelle stopped, and peeked her head around the cupboards. "He was a friend of Sophie's. Why?"

"There's a folder here, titled 'Scarlet.' It's hidden inside a folder, inside another, in a place you probably would never look. It has … fifteen letters saved, all either to or from Martin Wingate. Do you want to keep them?"

Isabelle walked quickly to stand behind Guillaume. "Let me see," she said, over his shoulder. He showed her where they were, and she wanted to ask him to open one so that she could read it, but she suddenly had the picture in her mind of Sophie sitting here, poring over these letters. Isabelle had walked into the back room countless times and had found her either smiling, or crying, or just staring. Guillaume moved the mouse to open one of them, and Isabelle put her hand over his.

"No," she said softly. "They were very private to her. Very personal. From a man she loved very much."

Guillaume stopped, and Isabelle sat in the chair next to him. He reached out to her, because her eyes had suddenly filled. "Maman?" he said gently, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine. It's simply that … it's such a sad story, a love story." She looked up at him, and a tear fell. "And I don't know the ending of it." She wiped away the tear and smiled at him. "I hope for you a love like that, my Guigui," she leant over and kissed him on the cheek, and then said, in a cheerier voice, "But with a _happy_ ending." She looked at the computer screen. "Yes, keep them, please. I'll decide later what to do with them."

They worked into the afternoon, organising, archiving, and cleaning up Isabelle's email and her files. Finally, Guillaume began on the website and the server. Isabelle had gone out to buy sandwiches at the Café Hugo, and on her return, she locked the front door and walked to the back of the store.

Guillaume looked up at her, smiling. "Your friend? Sophie? She's been in here."

Isabelle put down the food and went to him. "What? In _here_?" She pointed to the screen in wonder, as if Sophie might suddenly pop out like a jack-in-the-box.

Laughing, Guillaume said, "No, well, not in here exactly, but on the server. She sent an email to Martin Wingate just … erm … nearly three weeks ago, and he replied the next day. There were a couple more almost seven months ago. And she … or someone … has been checking the mail on the server nearly every day for the last seven months."

He nodded to Isabelle with respect in his eyes. "She's very clever, your friend. I have no way of knowing where she is, or where Martin Wingate is. The IP addresses are completely hidden, or simply don't exist anymore. Very clever girl. What did you say? She was your assistant?"

Isabelle smiled. "She was … erm ... _overqualified_, I believe, to be my assistant." Looking at the screen, which held nothing that she could understand, Isabelle said, "But you say she comes here … every day?"

"Yes. Every day. At least, someone comes here every day. Whoever it is that sent the email to Martin Wingate, and knows the way to get into the server without letting it know where they are. We must assume she's the one."

"So, today, my Sophie was here?" She looked into Guillaume's eyes, and he nodded. Isabelle released a deep breath and clapped her hands together. "Oh, she is safe. I'm so pleased." Suddenly, Isabelle had an idea. "This place she comes to, can we leave something there? Can I give her a message without anyone knowing?"

Now Guillaume's forehead furrowed again, "What is this about? Why wouldn't she be safe? Why shouldn't anyone know?" His eyes narrowed. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

Isabelle laughed, putting her hand on his arm. "Oh, _mon cheri_, there are many things I've never told you. One day, when I have had too much wine, I will share with you what an adventuress your dear old Maman has been. But for now, I want to send those letters, from the file named 'Scarlet,' to Sophie. Can I do that?"

Guillaume thought for a moment, and said, "Yes, I suppose if I …"

Laughing again, Isabelle, said, "Oh, please, no, don't tell me how. My head is splitting from this day already. Please just do it, and tell her they are from ... from Scarlet, with much love. Will you do that?"

Invigorated by the challenge, Guillaume was already clicking faster than she could possibly understand. "Yes. I will. But only on one condition." He turned to her, smiling. "You promise me we'll share that bottle of wine soon. You, an adventuress? I'm very intrigued."

* * *

Harry knew he should be on the Grid, but as the suicide bombings were merely to be a dry run, he thought Ros could handle it. She had looked at him strangely as he'd gone through the pods, but there was no one he could tell about Sugarhorse. No one but his old friend Bernard Qualtrough.

Harry walked to the back of The Bookshop on the Heath, and found Qualtrough with his head on his desk, sleeping. It was a habit of Bernard's from the old days, catching rest whenever possible during ops. He always called it "resting his eyes." Never was it called sleep.

Harry smiled, and spoke loudly enough to wake him. "Looking for a copy of _The Captain's Daughter_, the Gautier, 1891."

As Harry had known he would, Bernard awakened in a protest. He looked up, groggily, "I wasn't sleeping." Harry let him know with a tilt of the head that he knew better. Bernard looked down at the book on his desk, "I think what we have here is _Kak Poluchit Ne Menee_."

Bernard thought he would stump him with that one, but Harry responded with a smile, "How to get at least one-hundred-and-sixty-five eggs from every laying hen."

"_Very_ good. Published in Moscow, 1936. Very rare."

"Hello, Bernard." Harry had great affection in his voice. It was extremely good to see Qualtrough again, although he wished it were under different circumstances. He needed Bernard's help. Harry thought he was the best spy catcher the Services ever had, and he had been Harry's greatest teacher.

Harry came right out with it. "I have every reason to believe that the Service has been penetrated at the very highest level. Somebody has been talking to the Russians."

Harry couldn't tell Bernard everything about Sugarhorse, but he could tell him they'd been breached and ask his advice on how to catch the mole. There were only four people who knew about the operation. Harry, the Director General, Richard Dolby, and an officer named Hugo Prince, who was now dead.

"Well, I'd stake my life it's not you, Harry," Qualtrough said.

"The DG?" Harry asked sceptically.

"No, no, unthinkable. And if it was Hugo, at least the danger is over. And your new boss, Dolby? Now careful, Harry. Can't make it him just because he's the most frightful little tick. One must have some proof. Why can't you put your team on to it?"

Harry shook his head. "It's too sensitive for an in-house investigation. Need an outside eye. Somebody with discretion."

"And you think flattery will get you everywhere?" Just then, Harry's mobile beeped. He looked quickly at the screen. A Red Flash back to the Grid.

"I've got to go." Harry stood.

"Come back when you can, Harry," Qualtrough said. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

Harry hurried back to the Grid where he heard that the suicide bombings of the first cell hadn't been a dry run after all. Ros, through quick thinking and excellent operational management, had coordinated the defusing of two of the three bombs. The last had gone off, killing the bomber and two policemen, but no civilians.

Harry was grateful to have Ros for many reasons, but an added one was that he felt confident in leaving the Grid in her capable hands. That meant that he could focus on working with Bernard to find the mole who had leaked Sugarhorse to the Russians. After spending some time down at Registry, Harry stopped off again at the Bookshop. He walked to the back and handed Qualtrough some files, saying, "These files have two things in common. They represent compromised operations, and they involve Richard Dolby. At either planning or execution level."

Harry knew that Bernard's excellent mind would go to work on the problem and find the thread that Harry had missed. There was no time to be lost in determining where the leak existed. Hundreds of double agents in Russia were in danger of losing everything, including their lives.

After meeting with Bernard, Harry went back to the Grid. He knew he was running on very little sleep and should go home to get some rest, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He always had work to finish in his office, but tonight it wasn't for the work that he returned to the Grid, it was for a very different reason.

Ruth had been intruding on his thoughts all day long, distracting him, and his desire to see her was every bit as powerful as it had been this morning after his dream. As he drove back to the Grid, he thought again about what he had written in his letter. _Over six months apart and not a word from me -- I have to wonder if you've given up on us_. The thought wouldn't go away, no matter how he tried to deflect it.

Harry had all but decided to break his own rule, and now he had only to convince Malcolm to help him. He thought perhaps if he knew more about her life, if he had just a little more information, it would prevent what had almost happened this morning. He still promised himself he wouldn't make contact, but he had to know something, or he thought he simply might lose his mind.

So when he stepped back on the Grid and saw Malcolm tapping away at his station, Harry felt a wave of relief come over him. "Malcolm," he said, "Christ, I'm glad you're still here. I need to ask a favour of you."

Malcolm turned and saw the look on Harry's face, and immediately narrowed his eyes and said, "No."

Harry was already feeling guilty about what he was going to ask, and he wished for once that his old friend didn't know him so well. "I haven't even asked you anything yet," he said, doing his best to sound innocent.

Malcolm shook his head. "I know that look, and you're trying too hard to be nice. You either want me to take Scarlet for the week-end, or escort a friend of a friend with questionable conversational skills to a Bar Mitzvah or some such." He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I won't do it."

Harry laughed, and shook his head. "Neither." He sighed, and said, "I want you to break a rule that I set for you." Malcolm frowned, not understanding. Harry looked around the Grid to be certain they were alone, and continued, "Malcolm, I want you to tell me about Ruth."

Malcolm paused, thinking. This request didn't surprise him. In fact, he thought it was a testament to Harry's strength that it hadn't come sooner. But he'd been given a direct order never to broach this subject with Harry, and he had to at least attempt to follow that order.

"I don't know anything about Ruth," he deadpanned.

Harry sat on the edge of Malcolm's desk, and said evenly, "But you know how to find out."

"Yes. But you told me not to."

"And now," Harry said, his voice rising slightly, "I'm telling you I want you to."

They sat in silence for a moment, at an impasse. Neither would look away, and each was wondering what the other would say next. Finally, Malcolm sighed. "What would you have me do, Harry? Do you want me to quote exactly what you said? I believe it was, _Never, under any circumstances, no matter what I say ..._"

Harry interrupted him, exasperated, "Yes, I know what I told you. I'm telling you something else now." His face softened, became slack, and Malcolm saw the pain in his eyes. "I have to know, Malcolm. I can't go another day not knowing." Harry took off his coat and folded it carefully next to him. "It can't hurt her, can it, for me to know? What could hurt her is if I acted impulsively on the knowledge, and I'm telling you I won't."

Harry's voice became very soft. "I almost got on a plane this morning." Malcolm could hear the wonder in Harry's voice at his complete loss of control, and his heart went out to his friend. Harry was trying very hard to hide the emotion he was feeling, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it.

"Harry. Do you recall what else you said on that horrible night? You called it a slippery slope. You said once you know something, you need to know more, and then more." Malcolm paused. "I can tell you from experience that it's dreadfully hard to resist the temptation."

Harry gave a slight shake of his head. "Yes, but you've done it for six years. I've barely made six months. Six _years_, Malcolm. You're apparently made of steel."

Malcolm suddenly coloured slightly, and Harry raised his eyebrows. Sheepishly, Malcolm said, "I will confess to the odd backslide here or there." He let his eyes drift to the comfort of his computer screen as he talked. "I watched her once, stepping into a cab outside the school." His voice grew quieter, "And once more, as she left home in the morning. Sometimes, it's ... it's very hard to stay away ..." Malcolm shrugged, a bit embarrassed, and looked up at Harry, his tone changing to the more businesslike, more distant one of the Grid. "I do understand, you know."

Harry's eyes softened, "Yes, I'm certain you do."

For a moment, they sat in silence, until Malcolm turned and leant back in his chair. "She wrote to me. When Adam died." To Harry's blank look, Malcolm added, "Ruth."

Harry was caught off guard, his heart in somewhat of an open stance, and the news scored a direct hit. He lost his breath for a second, and he needed to regain his composure before he spoke. "What ... what did she say?"

"That she felt there was something wrong, and she wanted to know what it was. That she thought it might have been you, hurt or in danger." He smiled sympathetically at Harry, seeing how thrown he was, "Psychic Ruth, in action again. How I've missed her."

"And did you answer?"

"Yes, in a far-too-easily cracked code, but I told her that it was Adam who'd died, and that you were well."

"You never told me."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows archly and spoke very slowly, as if Harry were a child. "_You told me not to_."

Harry ignored his tone, and simply stared at Malcolm, his mouth slightly open, his mind racing. "How long ago was this?"

"Three weeks or so." Malcolm turned and clicked the icon on his taskbar at the bottom of his screen. After a few twists and turns and more than one password, he pulled up the email Ruth had sent him. "I got it early in the morning, the day after Adam died."

Harry read it over Malcolm's shoulder. _Is our mutual friend safe, and well? A feeling will not leave me that something dreadful has happened to someone I love. Please reply to me, and then I'll return to my silence._

Harry was suddenly so filled with love for her that he had to sit down. He closed his eyes against the waves as they broke over him. She was all there, in those few lines. Her care and compassion, her intuitive nature, her intelligence, her stoicism. _Someone I love. Oh, thank God, she does still love me_.

Harry propped his elbows on the desk and put his hands up to his face. Malcolm allowed him these moments in silence, understanding completely. He heard Harry sigh into his hands, and Malcolm knew that the worst of it had passed, as he continued, "We have operatives there, you know, near the Green Line." The Green Line between the Greek and Turkish sides of Cyprus, also known as the United Nations Buffer Zone, was the cease-fire line established in 1964. It was a volatile area, and needed watching. "And, Six has a man in Polis. A newsagent." Malcolm allowed himself a slight smile. "She might buy her paper from him, if she's still partial to _The Times_."

Harry looked at Malcolm and was unable to hide his relief. Just having these small bits of information made him feel closer to Ruth, as if she still existed out there. It made this impossible situation less surreal, and made her seem more accessible to him. Already he felt his nerves calming, his urgency subsiding.

"Can you find out where she's working? Where she lives?"

"Yes. I can also tell you how much she has in her bank account, where she shops for soap, and if she's run afoul of the local gendarmes, but should I?" Malcolm looked uncompromisingly at Harry. "What do you really want to know?"

Harry sighed, his exhaustion finally beginning to take its toll. "I want to know ... if she's happy. If she needs anything. If she hurts."

Malcolm's voice softened, as he shook his head slightly. "I won't be able to tell you that."

Harry turned away, and finally gave in. "I miss her so terribly, Malcolm, sometimes I'm not sure I can get through the day. How do you do it?"

"Well, old friend, I do miss Sarah very much, but ..." Malcolm reached out a hand to place it on Harry's shoulder, and then pulled it back, unable to move quite that far into new territory. " ... but you and Ruth... ah, that is something extraordinary."

Malcolm could see that Harry was on the edge of something very dangerous. "Harry, you haven't precisely asked for my advice, but in any event, that's what you're going to get. I _have_ lived with this for six years, so I'm more experienced at it." Speaking slowly, Malcolm tried to articulate exactly what he wanted to say.

"You ... you think this will make you feel better, but it won't. You'll feel ... erm ... cheapened by it, spying on someone you love, as if you're peering into her bedroom window at night ..." Malcolm looked away and shook his head. " ...horrible feeling, really, and she doesn't deserve it." He looked up again. "It's one-sided, and tawdry, and beneath me. She can't look in on me, can she?" Harry stayed silent, as Malcolm continued after another pause. "It doesn't help, Harry. It makes it worse. Please believe me."

"So what do I do, Malcolm? How do I get through this?" Malcolm had never seen Harry so open. He supposed the better word was _broken_. They were clearly heading into intolerably maudlin territory again, as they had when Malcolm first told Harry about Sarah. Enough was enough.

Malcolm's tone changed into its familiar clipped cadence. "You suck it up and remember that you're the one who's made the decision to live a life that's impossible for her. This isn't being _forced_ on you, Harry. Right now, this minute, you could call Ros and tell her she's Section Head. You could get on that plane, and we'd never see you again." Malcolm stopped and raised his eyebrows at Harry, challenging him. "Am I correct?"

Harry realised he had gone past Malcolm's available sympathy, and again, he was immeasurably grateful to his friend. "Yes. Yes, Malcolm, as usual, you're correct."

Finally, Malcolm did offer a gentlemanly pat on Harry's shoulder. He hesitated for a moment and then said, "Good, then. And although it's against my better judgment, I will give you one thing, and one thing only. Something small ... " Malcolm pursed his lips in thought, " ... something un_emotional_." He looked pointedly at Harry. "How about what she's driving? That should be fairly innocuous."

Harry turned around and watched as Malcolm made his way through myriad screens. Suddenly Malcolm's eyebrows went up, "I stand corrected. Controversial already, our Ruth." He pointed Harry to the screen.

Harry laughed in spite of himself, and looked at Malcolm, incredulous. "A Vespa?"

* * *

Amish Mani clicked off his mobile with his anger seething just beneath the surface of his outwardly placid face. "Oh, Harry," he said aloud to himself, "you didn't play by the rules."

So the uranium wasn't in Norfolk after all. It had taken all this time to reach an agreement with Libby McCall, and now it wasn't even there.

Harry knew where it was. Harry Pearce was easy to find, but Mani wasn't the type to get his hands dirty with an abduction of the Head of MI5 off the streets in London. He would put the word out that he would pay well for someone else to do it, and then of course, he wouldn't pay. _No honour among thieves_.

In the meantime, he thought he might try to find out where the woman was. Sophie something. Mani had felt a spark between Sophie and Harry, the heat that's generated when two people have slept together, or at the very least, when they want to. She could be useful.

He thought he would start with how they had gotten to Baghdad, to retrace their steps in order to find his way to her. A flight plan, perhaps. Pilots are usually ordinary people, with families, and Mani's specialty was families. It was amazing how much information you could get out of someone as they watched family members on a simple laptop.

Mani opened his mobile again to set things in motion. He would get the uranium that had been stolen from him.

It would only be a matter of time.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX**

* * *

George and Ruth spoke little on the ride home from the vineyard. There was certainly enough to look at, what with the rain-washed mountains and the magnificent sunshine surrounding them. The rutted road took all of George's concentration to traverse, as the torrential waters had carved new and dangerous gullies into which the truck could easily have gotten stuck.

In addition, they obviously had plenty to think about. In less than seventeen hours, their relationship had gone from seven months of a relatively tentative friendship to the first talk of marriage. It was no wonder that their heads were spinning a bit.

When George dropped Ruth off at her flat, he hesitated for a moment, but then decided to give her a warm hug and a chaste goodbye kiss on the lips. She let him hold her, let him stroke her hair, and didn't turn away from the kiss. He had always seen Ruth as a wounded animal of sorts, and he felt now that he'd made a tenuous connection. He finally seemed to have developed a level of trust with her, and he could hardly contain his joy. Ruth saw the change in him, and she smiled lightly as he walked backwards down her steps. George got into his truck feeling he'd travelled to the moon and back in one glorious day.

It was Sunday, but they'd forgone their usual reading of _The Times_ in the Square. They both needed a bit of distance to adjust to this new way of being, and they'd agreed they would have dinner together after work on Monday. George didn't tell Ruth, but he planned to get the local Polis paper on his way back to the vineyard. The first section he would turn to would be the one with homes for sale.

Ruth wanted a bath and a fresh change of clothes. She needed the familiarity of her flat, the feel of the hot water, things she could comfortably wrap her mind around. She felt disoriented, as if the ground were moving under her feet. It was odd for her to think of George now and remember his face so close to hers in the half-light, the feel of his lips, the texture of the skin on his chest covered in coarse, dark hair. Ruth got quickly into her flat and leant against the inside of her door. She closed her eyes at the memory of the night before and took a deep breath, again allowing it to sink in.

She went straight to the bathroom and turned on the taps, and she immediately felt Harry enter her consciousness. She'd forgotten for just a moment that he always came to her mind when she ran a bath. Wearily, Ruth sighed aloud. Quietly, inexorably, he joined her there, the memory of him offering the usual contradiction of pleasure and pain. She felt too exhausted to fight him anymore.

"Oh, Harry..." she said, softly, desperately, "How will I get through this?" With her hand curling through the warm water under the tap, she closed her eyes. She was on her knees by the tub, and as she leant her cheek on the cold porcelain, the words that came out sounded almost like a prayer. "Help me, please, to let go of you." She said it again, for emphasis. "I _have_ to let go of you."

Ruth had lived her life with an uncommon ability to reason things out, and she couldn't understand why she was now so uncharacteristically adrift in her thoughts. As she felt the warmth of the water on her hand and the cool of the tub on her face, the words she'd once spoken to Tom came back to her. _I'm an analyst with nothing to analyse._ Ruth lifted her head and blinked.

_Of course_. She was too close to this situation, too overwhelmed by her feelings to think logically. She needed to step outside of herself and find the solution, the way she used to do on the Grid. She wasn't quite sure how she would accomplish it, but it felt like a sort of revelation to Ruth.

What had Harry called it? _Compartmentalising_. He'd said he could put his emotions in a box and set them aside, whilst he did what he needed to do. _I wish I could ask him about that_. She laughed softly, and thought, _Of course you do, idiot, but then there wouldn't be a problem to sort out, would there?_ Ruth laid her forehead on the tub, enjoying the smooth feel of it, and wondered if she truly was going daft.

Ruth tried to take herself back to the moment this morning at breakfast, when she had put her hand on George's and told him she wished she could feel differently about him. It had been the truth. If she couldn't have Harry, and with each day's silence, that was increasingly looking to be the case, then she needed to move on. She cared deeply for George, but loving him seemed to ask so much of her, and it was something she didn't feel strong enough to give right now. In her present state of sleep-deprived confusion, it utterly exhausted her to imagine the mental and emotional work it would take to let go of Harry completely and give herself to George.

She knew she had to find a way to see George without Harry standing by his side, but every time she tried to imagine herself with George, there were three of them in the picture. Harry stood at some distance from them, patiently, and she had to look away from him. He had the soulful eyes from the corridor at Havensworth, and he looked at her with that deep well of sadness that she could hardly bear to remember. Every time she thought of Harry, her heart was so engaged that her brain could barely function.

Ruth stood and stepped out of her clothes. They were the ones she had put on yesterday morning to go on rounds with George, and life had been so different then. She'd still been on the other side of the line that she'd crossed last night, and it was a much simpler place to be. She wished now that she could be back there, but it was too late now. George had said _I love you_, and she'd said she wanted to love him.

She went to the cupboard and put her fingers on the bar of sandalwood soap, lifting it for a moment to her face. In its heady aroma, she travelled back to the Hotel Britannique as she watched Harry shave. It was the day he had asked her to marry him. No, it was the day they _had_ married each other, in the warmth of the hotel's soft feather bed, enclosed in each other's arms.

Ruth looked at her hand, and again saw how bare her finger was. The ring had only been there for a short time, but it had felt so right, so perfect there. Ruth felt the tears coming, and she reluctantly replaced Harry's soap. She picked up a bar of milled soap, fresh from the box. It was new, different, and uncomplicated. _Just like George_. With no sad memories attached.

Ruth slipped into the deliciously warm water. She calculated she was going on only two or three hours of sleep, so she washed quickly, thinking longingly of a nap. Within minutes, she was towelling off as she walked to the bedroom. She looked at the bed, knowing she should simply get into it, but instead she pulled on a cotton shirt and shorts and went back out to the lounge. She hadn't checked the server in two days, and she knew she wouldn't sleep until she did.

She knew it was silly, but it had gone from a habit to a sort of obsession. She'd tried many times to keep herself from it, but then she would think about it all day. She would wonder, what if today was the day that he'd decided to write to her? So she found that simply checking it first thing gave her the peace she needed to get on with her life for the next twenty-four hours.

But in her exhaustion this morning, she realised this was probably a mistake, because now she wanted a cup of tea as well. Somehow she always connected tea with sitting at the computer at _l'Alcove_ and checking for Harry's letters. Ruth gave in to the craving, rationalising that she had the entire day to sleep, and just a few more minutes wouldn't hurt. So she set the kettle to heat and opened her laptop. By the time she found her way to the server, she had a cup of English Breakfast tea wafting its lovely fragrance under her nose.

Ruth was so accustomed to finding nothing, that for a moment she had trouble comprehending how something could be there. She stared at the new folder, named "Scarlet," and Ruth knew immediately what it was. She still had the cup of hot tea in her hands, and although she bobbled it a bit, she managed to set it down safely as the pieces fell into place in her mind. These were her letters to Harry, and his to her. And with that small folder came the memory of the magnificent realisation that she'd had in Paris as she sat missing him so much. The knowledge that she and Harry could still communicate.

Ruth had never found the courage to delete the letters from Isabelle's computer, although she had hidden them. She'd had some idea in her head that she would code them someday, but the urgency had never taken hold of her, and then, suddenly, she was no longer in Paris. For a moment, Ruth wondered how Isabelle had discovered them, and had then found the way to get them on to the server, but she quickly reasoned that it had to have been Guillaume.

Ruth stared at the folder, her chest suddenly tight. Now that she'd seen it, she was thrown back to the thrill of seeing those words, _Your Much Appreciated Correspondence_. She remembered the tears she'd cried at that small computer desk in the back of _l'Alcove_, and the way her entire world had been contained in Harry's words as she'd read his letters. She moved the mouse over the folder, and clicked. As her heart pounded, she counted them. They were all there, every one of them.

She transferred a copy of the folder to her laptop and closed the server. When she was at _l'Alcove_, she'd read the letters so many times that she'd thought she could almost recite them, but now, they seemed of another time and wonderfully new, like Christmas packages to be opened. Seeing them again catapulted her back to Paris, to her flat there, and to Harry.

But now she found that she couldn't simply open them. She needed to absorb the fact that they were in her possession again, and to decide if reading them would make things better, or worse. She was suddenly frightened, knowing how close her emotions were to the surface, and knowing the power Harry's words had over her. Just moments ago, she was trying to let go of Harry. Would it be helpful for her to spend a morning lamenting over what had been, rather than looking ahead to a new future?

Ruth stood, taking her tea with her, and walked out to the balcony. She was breathing as if she had just sprinted up a flight of stairs, and she felt a need to calm herself. She closed her eyes, and as she calmed, Ruth began to think that, in fact, lamenting might be just exactly what she needed. Perhaps she could remind herself, finally, what she had lost. And she did now believe that she had lost him. It was truly beginning to dawn on Ruth that she would never hear from Harry again.

Her words to Christina about destiny suddenly came back to her. _I used to think that we were destined to be together, but as time goes by, I'm starting to think that it's the opposite. It's as if no matter how hard we tried to be together, something kept driving us apart. We would break down a wall, and another would rise up in its place ..._

Why these letters now? What set of forces had combined to allow Isabelle to find them, and then to decide that Sophie needed them? If there were no accidents, and Ruth believed that down to her soul, then why now? On the morning after George's declaration of love, on a day when Ruth was so confused she hardly knew where to turn? Hadn't she just asked Harry to help her let go? The letters felt somehow like an answer.

Ruth had wanted so much to believe that she and Harry were meant to be together, but what if the opposite were true? She and Harry had pledged themselves to each other forever, but now she didn't know what forever meant. To her, it had always meant forever _together_. What if they never found each other again? Was she expected to turn her back on what George was offering, and spend forever alone?

And then another thought occurred to Ruth. She knew she would always love Harry, but if they weren't meant to be together, perhaps she was intended to honour that love by living vibrantly. By moving on to a new and full life, rather than the half-life she'd been existing in for all these months. Ruth opened her eyes and squinted at the morning sun. If the sudden appearance of these letters was intended to be her answer, then she would listen to them.

Ruth took a long sip of her tea and walked back to the kitchen to freshen it. With a new sense of resolve, she decided that today she would spend with Harry. She would submerge herself in his words, and remind herself of the words she'd written. She would attempt to put her emotions in that box, and set them off to the side so that she could think clearly. She would code their letters, and in the process, she would determine, as dispassionately as possible, what their future would hold. And finally, Ruth decided, no matter what the letters told her, she would commit to a decision, one way or another.

Now Ruth was wide awake. She felt energised, as she had felt when she'd been given a task on the Grid. Ruth sat back down, and clicked on the first letter from Martin Wingate. _Thank you for the very welcome information regarding your new website. To say it was received with gratitude would be an understatement ..._

She felt the tears coming again, as she knew they would, but she didn't fight them. She let them fall while she kept her mind engaged. _I have passed your information on to an associate, a Mr William Arden, who is currently immersed in a study of Romanticism, although he also has recently developed a strong interest in Atlanticism..._

Ruth laughed softly as her eyes filled. Tears and laughter, the ongoing punctuation of their story. She had all day to read The Story of Harry and Ruth, and then she was certain she would know what to do.

* * *

Harry thought he might finally be able to make a difference. So many of his days started and ended in a defensive posture, reacting to the movements of others. Fighting terror required that terror be present, or imminent, or at the very least, predicted. Creating a space for accord wasn't often in Harry's job description. But today, he'd been given the chance to work toward peace.

Muhammad Khordad wanted to talk. Born in Afghanistan and educated at Cambridge, Khordad was the leader of the Pakistani terrorist organization, The Path of Light. He'd fallen off the terror map for a while, but two years ago he'd resurfaced as one of the brains behind Al Qaeda, and now the Americans rated him as their third most wanted. Ros had learned that he'd been the paymaster for the recent bomb that had killed the two police officers.

When, through a carefully planned drop, Khordad made contact and suggested in a phone call that they meet, Harry was sceptical. "A senior MI5 officer and Al Qaeda's number three? I don't think that's going to be possible," he said to Khordad.

But Khordad was offering intelligence that MI5 needed, and in the end, Harry couldn't say no. This offer to negotiate could be nothing, probably was, but Harry thought it could also be the first step toward ending the war on terror, and he wasn't willing to throw the opportunity away. Connie, as always, had a sardonically cynical take on the meeting, "Sometimes you have to sup with the Devil, just to find out what he wants," but Harry saw it differently. Harry felt hopeful. It astonished him, but there it was again. That elusive sense of hope.

Harry stood in his dark office and watched the activity on the Grid, the way he had so many times, feeling the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. But lately, he could feel something very different about himself. He still entirely understood the nature of his job, but it seemed to have a deeper emotional core now, as if he were connecting for the first time with the consequences of the work he did. If he had to track it, Harry would say it had started with the Tehran train and the feeling of remorse he'd had, leaning against his door after giving the order.

And now, as he watched the bustle on the Grid, he found himself wondering about the analyst sitting across the room, Derek, was it? Was he married, did he have children, where did he live? Did he love his work, or was it just a job? A small frown started to furrow Harry's forehead. How little he knew of the people he oversaw every day. He'd always wanted it to be that way. Harry thought it easier in the long run to be removed and separate, but lately, he found he was curious about the people who worked for him.

Of course, Harry knew this recent awareness was intimately connected to his love for Ruth. He heard her asking questions in his head all day long, and so often the question was, _How do you feel?_ She also asked _What do you think? _but more often her voice spoke of what was in his heart. He supposed it was due to the fact that Ruth lived in his heart, every minute of every day.

Still gazing out at the Grid, Harry fought to control the corners of his mouth as they began to curl into a smile. He imagined if anyone who knew him well saw him with this look, or heard these ideas spoken aloud, they'd be sending him to Diana on suspicion of some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. Actually, considering the changes that were happening in him, Harry thought it _would_ probably be wise for him to talk with Diana, but he didn't really need a shrink to diagnose these symptoms. And most importantly, he wasn't sure he wanted them cured.

He was starting to understand that feeling didn't have to mean weakness. It was infinitely more complicated, to be sure, to have to analyse every decision from another's point of view. But it didn't mean it was wrong to do so. It felt trite to say that his love for Ruth had made him a better person, but there it was, and that was what made Harry smile this morning. Ruth had always known the delicate balance between the man he had to be here, and the one she'd held in her arms. Right now, he felt like both of them. She had changed him, and the change was feeling more permanent with every passing day.

Ros came around the corner and into his office. "It's under way. Now all we do is watch and wait." They were waiting for Khordad to contact them with the information on where they were to meet him. They still had no idea what he had to say, but Harry was grateful for the opportunity to find out.

Harry didn't turn, but kept his eyes focused on the Grid. "If this happens, it will be an unprecedented chance for an accord, and after such an accord, peace may follow."

"Well, I'm glad the stakes aren't too high, you'd be making me nervous," Ros said dryly, as she sat on the edge of his desk behind him.

Now he did turn to her, and Ros could hear the passion in Harry's voice, but also an uncharacteristic idealism. "This wouldn't just be a coup for us, or MI5, or even Britain. Bringing Al Qaeda to the negotiating table would save untold lives."

Ros had seen the change in Harry, and she recognised it for what it was. She did worry at times that his love for Ruth had softened him, blinded him a bit to the realities of the world. She'd first seen it during Cotterdam, although her contact with Oliver Mace had kept her out of the trusted inner circle of Harry, Adam and Zaf. She'd watched Harry struggle to keep his emotions down, and then finally, as they'd stood in the cold at the doghouse, she'd seen him lose out to his feelings altogether, rendering him unable even to function as Section Head.

Ros knew she had a reputation for coldness, and she was grateful for it, because there were plenty of times that she held herself in check simply to uphold that reputation. Seeing Harry weaker only meant that she needed to be stronger. He counted on her for that. Ros often wondered what she would be like at Harry's age, having seen what he'd seen, and having lost the number of people he'd lost. She had great affection and respect for Harry Pearce, and thought she would do nearly anything for him.

And although Ros tried never to wallow in regret, she had to admit that she wished now that she had acted differently during Cotterdam. _Dying does have its benefits_, she thought, and one of them is the process of watching your choices, the good and the bad, parade by in front of you. Ros had been angry with Harry when her father was sent toprison, and she'd lashed out at Ruth precisely to hurt him. It was a regret she'd felt sharply as Harry sat with her and called her his outstanding officer. Ros had decided that the best way to make that up to him was to stand beside him, to support him, and yes, even to protect him when she could.

And today, even Ros thought it was dangerous ground Harry was walking. "We take nothing for granted, Harry. 'Top MI5 man captured by Al Qaeda,' that's a very different sort of coup."

"It's a risk we have to take. We've been chasing the shadow of Al Qaeda across the globe for years. This is too important an opportunity to let slip through our fingers."

Ros nodded slightly. _So be it._ This was Harry's choice, but Ros was going with him to the meeting. She knew that if Harry was following his heart, he might need her steel to protect him.

* * *

Nicholas Blake wasn't nearly as conciliatory to Harry's idea as Ros had been. "You can't seriously expect me to sanction a meeting with Muhammad Khordad, not after the last few days."

"It's an opportunity we have to take." Harry knew this wasn't going to be an easy sell, and in truth, he'd already decided he was going. But Harry had to ask, and the Home Secretary had to say no. This was a formality for both of them, a part of the game.

Blake narrowed his eyes at Harry. "It's an opportunity for the PM to cut my bollocks off."

"Well, you can join the choir."

Harry knew that one of his fortes was his ability to traverse not only the roads trodden by the truly evil people in the world, but also those walked by bureaucrats. He had to admit that sometimes it felt safer with the former than with the latter. But Harry felt he was justified in standing up to Nicholas Blake, even in the posturing mood the Home Secretary was sporting today.

Blake's voice fell into the familiar cadence of his speeches to Parliament. "You know the policy. We do _not_ negotiate with terrorists. _Ever_."

Harry was unimpressed. "With all due respect, Home Secretary, we're not in the House now. You know as well as I do, we started talking to the IRA in 1972."

Blake gave Harry a warning glance. "Don't quote history at me, Harry. This is entirely different, and you know it."

Harry did know it. Horrible as it was, the IRA was a local problem. Negotiating with Pakistan and The Path of Light moved them into the global arena, and as Blake pointed out, if the Americans, or the press got wind of it, there would be hell to pay.

Harry stood firm. "We cannot afford not to explore every avenue."

"Oh, please," Blake said sarcastically, turning his head away.

"Do you know what's going on out there? Kids who played football together are now fighting in the streets. If this goes on, we could see the Balkanisation of Britain."

"And they say the Government spins." Blake's voice fairly dripped with condescension.

Harry turned on him. "You want it without spin?" Sometimes bureaucrats needed to hear the unvarnished truth. "We cannot win the war against terrorism, ever. We can contain it, we can prevent its worst consequences, but we can _never_ defeat it. So when we get an offer to talk, however tentative, however precarious, we take it. We have to."

The Home Secretary looked down, and he had to admit he felt slightly humbled by what Harry had just said. Blake was trying to retain his cold demeanour, but he was seeing something new in Harry today. Harry was certainly not a boy scout, although he did have his moments of acting like one. But today, Blake thought Harry was sounding positively idealistic.

He still couldn't offer sanction, but he could offer to look the other way. Blake gazed up at Harry, and said in an even tone, "Total deniability, do you understand? _Total_."

Harry nodded silently as he turned toward the heavy mahogany door. It was the best he could have hoped for. But much as he enjoyed the exquisite music of choirs, he had to admit he had no desire to be joining one himself.

* * *

Ruth worked for almost the entire day, coding all fifteen of the letters. When she broke them down, word by word, letter by letter, it somehow changed them, in the same way that the binary language of computers can change complicated formulas into simple ones and zeros.

It didn't mean she felt them any less. In fact, it was quite the opposite, she felt them acutely. By the end of the day she had each sentence, each phrase, nearly memorised. She remembered the initial writing and reading of each letter, and re-experienced the feelings that had created them. And not only the letters themselves, but what had led up to them, and then, what had come after.

In essence, she relived the entire time she had spent living in Paris. It was the time between her normal life in London, and her complete exile on Cyprus. From her new vantage point, Ruth plainly saw that it had been a time of transition from one thing to the next, merely a part of the progression that had led her to now.

But what brought the tears, even as she tried so hard to be the cold analyst, was that Ruth was gradually seeing something very clearly. She saw that if she extrapolated that progression, it was not leading her toward Harry.

It was leading her inevitably away from him.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN**

* * *

Khordad was clearly an intelligent man, and a passionate one. Although Harry disliked him, Muhammad seemed to him to be a man who had a similar goal to Harry's, that of preserving his idea of right and of freedom. The fact that their ideas were diametrically opposed to each other made them no less compelling.

After the discussion of ideologies was dispensed with, Khordad got right to the point. "We both know I am not afraid of killing. And you're right not to trust me. It's your job. So I propose reciprocal tokens of sincerity. Today at three o'clock, a cell will carry out a military operation in London."

"A terrorist attack." Harry was unwilling to allow Khordad to sugar-coat it.

Khordad didn't blink. "Let's not fall out over semantics."

When Harry asked who was behind the attack, Khordad said he had no idea, but that he would post the bomb's location on a website as soon as he had gotten what he wanted. Unfortunately, what he wanted was impossible for Harry to procure for him: a statement affirming that two Pakistani soldiers, just released from Guantanamo Bay, were wrongfully arrested, illegally incarcerated, and tortured. And a guarantee that they would face no further charges in the UK.

Harry quickly imagined the conversation he would need to have with the Home Secretary, and the answer he would get from Nicholas Blake. Another chorus of _We do not negotiate with terrorists_, and beyond that, Blake would say that a statement of this sort would be tantamount to saying that the Americans had lied about their actions at Guantanamo Bay. Under no circumstances would Britain be willing to burn that bridge with the cousins so completely.

Harry stared Khordad down, and spoke quickly, firmly. "That is not within my power."

"Deliver the statement, Mr Pearce," Khordad said evenly, "And I'll deliver peace on the streets."

"And if I can't?" Harry asked.

Khordad simply returned Harry's stare, silently.

Ros softly spoke the word that was on Harry's tongue. "Blackmail."

Khordad wished to use a more genteel word, inaccurate though it may have been. "Negotiation."

So this wasn't about finding a middle ground. It was another case of the UK being threatened from the outside in order to further someone's political agenda. If Harry lost this gambit, people would die. If he won, he would simply be preserving the status quo. Harry sighed, and realised that his hope for a new job description wasn't going to be fulfilled today. Today he had to find a bomb and defuse it.

So much for talk of peace.

* * *

After finishing her coding, Ruth read the letters one more time, and then again. By the time she decided to open a new document to begin a letter to Harry, the sun was making its descent toward the sea outside her window. Ruth was still going on just three hours' sleep from the night before, and now her eyes were red-rimmed and her neck hurt. She had pulled some slices of ham and an apple out of the refrigerator at about noon, but other than that she had survived only on four cups of tea.

She didn't know what she would say to Harry, but she had a fairly good idea of what her conclusion would be. Before she started typing, she put her fingers on the keys of her laptop and closed her eyes, as if she were waiting for a message to come from above. Finally, she opened her eyes and composed a letter in one go.

_Harry,_

_I have never understood how a reader can go to the back page of a book and read the ending before actually reading the rest, but it's becoming increasingly clear to me. I so desperately wanted to know the ending of this story. Our story. Our letters from Paris have come into my hands, thanks to Isabelle, and I've done what I've always so indignantly disparaged in others. I turned to the ending of our story and I read the last letter first. _

_We aren't often given the privilege of knowing beforehand when something happens for the last time. The last kiss goodbye before a sudden death, the last time making love before a horrific row that ends a relationship, or even the last time we touch someone before a long separation. _

_Did you know in Dover, as you released my hand, that it was the end? Or did you come to that decision later, when you determined that I was better off without you? Your trusting, wide-eyed and, in your words, psychic Ruth, had no idea, Harry. If I'd had an inkling, that ferry, and another, and a hundred after it would have left without me._

_But I digress, and I've promised myself to try and analyse this in an organised fashion. I'm attempting to take a page from your book and compartmentalise. It's a new process for me, and I'm afraid that like all things that are new and unpractised, this will tend to come out rather stilted, perhaps a bit sharp. There will be some anger in these lines, a pinch of sarcasm here, a dash of cynicism there. My claws may show themselves, but I know you're intuitive enough to understand that they only protect my heart._

_After reading our letters, my love for you is so enormous and so close to the surface that I must nearly transform into an utterly new person to analyse our relationship properly. But I'm getting quite good at changing names and situations. The woman who introduced herself to you in the alcove, the one with the three names she was given at birth, seems to have misplaced pieces of herself everywhere. In Bath, Paris, London, Calais, and even here, just a few miles up the road, on a terrace overlooking the sea._

_All that's left of me is this heart, still beating, although it wonders at times why it does. And a mind that thinks far too much for its own good. Both are living in two different times and places, in the present and in the past. And they are quite frankly exhausted with the effort._

_So in an attempt to finally move forward, I've re-read our letters, starting with the last one, and ending with the first, in a sort of frenetic, surreal, Lewis Carroll style. It was like running a film in reverse, and it was actually quite illuminating. My mind walked backwards from forever, to marriage, to commitment, to passion, to a tentative kiss, to looks in the hallway, to our first meeting. And curiouser and curiouser, it turns out that life is a circle, and I've returned to the beginning again. _

_Today I'm back to the silence, the wondering, the awkwardness, the lack of touch, the loving from afar, the resignation that you and I can never be. And here I sit, pondering if it would even be possible for me to do it all again. But there, I've skipped to the ending, wanting things to be linear, and they're not. They're messy, and muddled, and as confusing as they can possibly be._

_And why today, after all this time, am I suddenly needing clarity? Sit down, Harry, as this may be hard to hear. There's another man standing beside you now. He can't possibly measure up, poor soul, but he wants to so badly. He seems to love me very much, and he wants to take care of me. He's gentle, and kind, and he has even moved me from my sphinx-like, morose self, to an occasional laugh._

_But you've not only been the love of my whole life, you've been my very best friend, and I need to ask your advice. I come to you with a dilemma. This man told me last night that he can't be with me without love, so I'm left with only a few choices. _

_I can tell him I love him, but I don't, and he really deserves better than that. I can tell him I'll never love him, which is what I believe to be true, but if I do that, I'm likely to lose him. Or I can take the coward's way out and remain silent, letting him wonder while I enjoy his company without paying the price for it. And I can hope, fervently, that someday you will quietly leave my heart and there will be a space in it for him. At present, I'm leaning toward the third choice, but I don't admire myself exceedingly for it._

_There's a passage from my last letter to you that seems to summarise how I've felt since the day we first declared our love: "I know we will be together one day. There is no other outcome that makes sense, and whatever happens between this day and that one is simply the marching of time." _

_Such certainty in those words, and so filled with starry-eyed hope. That was a woman with a ring on her finger, and a dream that she thought would never die. I look at her now and want to hold her in my arms, to protect her from her inevitable future. I want to warn her about what's coming so that she can put on some armour. _

_Oh, we were good together, you and I. Ours was the love I'd dreamed of but never thought I would find. Laughter, respect, honesty, passion, and a seemingly endless supply of tenderness. At times I would look at you and my heart would fill so completely that I thought I might not survive it. Every inch of your skin, every hair, your eyes, your voice, your thoughts, your humour, have been so precious to me. The feel of your hand in mine, the way we made love, the way you adored me, how cherished I felt._

_I'm remembering that night at Havensworth, when you said to me, "Don't worry, it will get better." I close my eyes and I can still put myself there, the moon making patterns on the carpet, your arm snug around me, listening to you breathe softly on my neck. I thought then that it could never get better than that, Harry. To my amazement, it did. _

_But now, when I put myself back in your arms at night, I lie with an ache that won't lessen, and I wonder, can't I simply turn back the clock and forget that a love like that ever existed for me? Or am I able to excise only the memories that give me pain, so that I can remember you with happiness, instead of feeling your loss so acutely?_

_Oh, our letters, Harry. How well they tell the story of our love for each other. I hesitate to pull out the old chestnut, but here it is: No one will ever love you as I have. You have chosen to let go of a woman who would have spent her life making you astonishingly happy. _

_I read once that when you find yourself in a tug-of-war with someone, the easiest way to end it is to simply let go of the rope, to relinquish the investment you've made in the outcome. I feel my grip loosening, my love. I don't really want to let go, but may I take the analogy too far, as you smile indulgently at me? My hands are burned. I'm tired. I need to sit down..._

Ruth stopped, no longer able to see the screen in front of her. For a few minutes, she pushed the heels of her hands firmly over her eyes, and she cried. Out loud, softly, on the power of an exhale, she said, "Can I do this?" And the answer came to her analyst's mind in a sudden, clear voice, "Yes."

And this time, in her head, it wasn't Harry's voice she heard, it was George's. It was what he had said to her last night on the porch. "No more." And those words were now what every part of Ruth, even the scattered ones, came together to say. "No more."

She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling a sudden surge of energy. She drew strength from the fact that instead of waiting, she was doing something. Instead of having choices made for her, she was making her own choices. Ruth still cried, but it was in grief for what she was letting go, and not from indecision. And there was anger, too, brought on by the waste of a love that Ruth knew so many could only dream of.

_We couldn't stop, could we? The progression is so clear when it's all laid out before me. We said just letters, then it was a phone call, then we had to see each other, revelling in the danger, flying in the face of everything we knew. We went too far, and we lost everything. You know we would do it again, wouldn't we, Harry? And that's why you stay away. You do it to keep me safe. I know that's what you tell yourself._

_But there's another reason, isn't there? We might as well say it, because the truth of it has hit me today like a brick. You stay away because you can't make the final leap. You've been so long with the Services that you're not quite sure how you would define yourself away from them. It is truly as simple a choice as this: me, or your work. How banal we've turned out to be, Harry. It leaves me feeling sordidly like "the other woman." _

_I can see you through the glass right now, sitting at your desk, still loving me. I get angry, I rail at you, I say things to hurt you, but I don't ever doubt you still love me. What has broken my heart is that you clearly love your job more._

_I have a new friend here, and she says none of this is complicated. I'm coming round to her point of view. My fingers fly on the keys now as I realise how very simple this is. She said that any day you could get on a plane to me, any day you could pick up the phone and call. But that would require that you turn your back on everything you've worked for, on the life you've known for longer than you've loved me._

_Do you remember the day your friend died, and I came to try to comfort you? I asked you if he was married, and you said he probably imagined himself married to the Service. My heart ached for you in that moment, because I was so afraid that you saw yourself that way too. It aches again now, Harry, in just the same way. _

_Did you get my ring from Paris? If you did, drop it on the tall sword of that lovely bronze sculpture you keep on your desk. Let it remind you to whom you're married. Till death do you part._

_That was spiteful, that last bit, wasn't it? And although I feel somewhat entitled to be selfish, I suppose I should apologise, and say something kind. I'll make an effort. I know that you defend the people who cannot defend themselves, and you're very good at it. I do know how important your work is, and I know the lives you save. Unfortunately, the only life I'm trying to save right now is my own, so I'm suffering somewhat from tunnel-vision. I just want us both to agree that you've made your choice. I shall do my best to lose gracefully without throwing darts as I go._

_When I sat down to write this letter, I gave myself an assignment to write a paper of sorts, based on our story. An in-depth analysis of us. I've gone quite drastically off-topic, but it's been a valuable digression, as my mind feels uncommonly clear at present._

_The theme of the story? Well, it's a tossup between love and hope. The protagonists? You and I are, of course, the hero and the heroine. The antagonists? Oh, that's a thesis all its own, isn't it? A cast of thousands. I think in my angry state I'll just say the whole wide world, with its terrors and tyrants and their indiscriminate wish to do harm. And when I put it that way, a picture emerges of how small you and I are, tiny stick figures trying to find their way to each other through monolithic walls and across deep oceans._

_I've been offered a life raft, Harry, and I believe I'm going to take it. I'll leave you to save the world. I will love you from the depths of my soul until the moment I die, but I refuse to give up on life waiting for you. _

_Goodbye, my dearest love._

_Ruth_

Her hand on the mouse, Ruth hovered the cursor over the "send" button. She wanted so much to do it, and it would take only the slightest movement. But then she thought about how she could never take it back, and this awareness of the finality of the act made her stop and work through the consequences.

She imagined Harry's face as he read these words, and although it felt cruel to be so specific about her dilemma with George, her anger made her think Harry needed to know that he was poised to lose her forever. Ruth knew it was time for her to look ahead. It was beyond time. Now she just had to sort out her first steps into a new life. A life without Harry.

Just a twitch of her finger, and the letter would be sent. She could move on, knowing that because she had burnt a bridge and said things that couldn't be unsaid, it would be harder to backslide. She began to put an infinitesimal pressure, just a whisper of the weight of her finger on the button...

Suddenly, Ruth pulled her hand away from the mouse, and said aloud, "No." If he had already let go of her, why would she need to send this? Only for its dramatic effect, its sense of catharsis for her. But the letter had already fulfilled the purpose of helping her to analyse and determine what she would do. Harry didn't need to see this letter. The only one who needed to see it was Ruth.

She closed it, and as she did, she imagined herself releasing Harry. She tried to see George instead, but when that proved futile, she allowed that these things take time.

To anyone who might have been watching, this was a woman who knew what she wanted to do, and she had done it decisively. But a very careful observer would also have seen that after Ruth closed this very decisive letter, rather than deleting the copy, she opened the server again and moved it gently into the folder there named "Scarlet" for safekeeping.

She hardly knew she was doing it, but it was clear that she still felt the need to keep the complete story of Harry and Ruth intact, just in case she should happen to need it again.

* * *

As Harry walked along the Thames, he stopped and watched the water for a minute. He had suddenly been overcome by a feeling and was trying to put his finger on it. He could only think it must be the meeting he was about to have with Bernard. His old friend had been cryptic in his phone call. "I think I've found the leak. There's someone else who knows about Sugarhorse. Meet me in the usual place."

"Okay." Harry and Ros had been walking away from a meeting with the Home Secretary when Harry's mobile had rung. He'd turned and put a hand on Ros' back, motioning her toward the Range Rover. "Ros, you take the car, I'll meet you back there. I need a breath of fresh air."

Ros had looked at him strangely, and he'd known that he'd roused her suspicions about what he was doing, but there was no helping that right now. He still didn't know who the mole was, and he was becoming increasingly worried that it was someone on the Grid. There were too many Russian connections with Ros and Lucas for him to be completely certain of either of them.

Harry stood at the rail for a moment longer, until he had composed himself. It was as if his world had tilted, and suddenly the realisation hit him that it wasn't his meeting with Qualtrough that had caused it, but something to do with Ruth. She was still in his heart, but she resided there alongside a nebulous feeling of dread. Harry felt a fresh need to get something, anything else, out of Malcolm about what she was doing.

But that would have to wait for now. Harry turned and walked on until he saw Qualtrough standing under the bridge. "We've been sniffing at the wrong dog," Bernard said. "I've been checking Richard Dolby's old files, and there's no way that he could have leaked Sugarhorse. It would have meant compromising missions that went on to be successful."

Harry narrowed his eyes, thinking hard. _So if it wasn't the DG, and it wasn't Dolby, and Hugo Prince was dead, then who?_ "It doesn't make any sense. Everyone else is either dead, or accounted for," Harry said.

"Not quite. There is someone who was working with Hugo Prince at the time." Qualtrough looked Harry right in the eyes, and took a pause before he spoke. "Connie."

The shock was evident on Harry's face. If anyone else but Bernard had implied this, he would have cut them off at the knees, but since it was Bernard, Harry had felt he had to listen. And this thought was suddenly joining with his earlier feelings that the mole was someone on the Grid.

Qualtrough continued, "There was a rumour that they were close. Nobody took it seriously, just the usual gossip."

Harry was still bewildered. "Connie and Hugo?"

"He cut quite a dash in those days. We all did." Harry managed a weak smile at this, but he still couldn't allow the thought to entirely sink in. _Connie_. Harry felt he could trust Connie with his life.

Bernard said quickly, "I really don't believe it was Connie, but we have to check. For her sake, as well as our own." He put his hand on Harry's shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry. I'll make the necessary inquiries."

Harry nodded, but he was far too lost in his thoughts to have any kind of discussion about this with Bernard. Harry was no longer much of a betting man, but as he walked back to the Grid, he thought he would bet quite a lot that Connie James wasn't a mole.

Within moments of coming through the pods, he saw her, and suddenly, he thought he might change that bet. He saw her face, and was reminded of her astonishing facility with the Russian language and culture, of her sharp criticism of the British government and its policies, and now this news of a possible relationship with Hugo Prince.

Harry had certainly been betrayed before, but if this were true, he thought it might quite throw him. Trusting those you worked with was a necessity in this business. This would change everything he'd thought about those around him. If Connie couldn't be trusted, Harry wondered who could.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT**

* * *

As Harry walked toward the pods, he was aware that it was the second time he'd seen that look from Ros. The one that told him she was worried, suspicious, and very aware that he was going off on his own. The first time had been earlier, when he'd gone to meet Bernard Qualtrough.

Now he was on his way to meet Muhammad Khordad, and Harry had told no one. He'd been very close to walking over to Ros, and simply saying, "Trust me." But he'd said nothing. She would have wanted to go with him, or at the very least, put a team on surveillance. Harry knew that would destroy the tenuous trust he'd managed to instil in Khordad.

They'd managed to defuse the terror threat to Quartermain's Restaurant, by pretending to let the bomb explode. Looking dazed and soot-covered, MI5 officers and various plods had wandered out of the completely intact restaurant after a distraction device was detonated to make it look as if the building had been destroyed. The news cameras had dutifully recorded it, reporting it as yet another attack, and Khordad believed he hadn't been betrayed. But in reality, no one was hurt. A win-win-win outcome, which were few and far between in the Security Services. Harry was grateful.

Soon after, Harry had gotten a phone call from Khordad. "You are a ruthless man, Mr Pearce, letting the bomb explode. We all have to make impossible decisions. You and I are not so different."

Harry had fairly sneered his answer. "We are _completely_ different." After a pause, he collected himself. "But unfortunately, we need each other."

Khordad agreed. "You've earned my trust. We need to meet. Come alone."

Harry knew that meeting alone with the head of Path of Light would not be considered either advisable or safe. But he had a feeling about Khordad, that there was something still to be gained from him. He sat at his desk for just a moment longer, deliberating, and then stood to get his coat. As he'd left, he'd gotten the look from Ros.

And as he drove to the meeting, a conversation with Ruth entered his mind. He remembered when he'd told her of the necessity for him to hold parts of his job confidentially from the other members of his team. Truth was, these days, Harry was feeling very much alone. Being alone hadn't always been a bad thing in his experience, but now there was a sharp edge to it. The combination of Ruth's absence and the possibility of Connie's betrayal were burdening him with an inertia that he found increasingly difficult to overcome. If Ruth were here, he would be able to talk to her about it, but as it was, he kept the news to himself.

He'd thought about talking to Ros about Connie, but Harry knew it was never a good idea to divide your team with suspicion. It was already bad enough that Harry had his doubts about Connie, he didn't want to add Ros to the circle of distrust, especially on the basis of speculation. Harry found himself listening to Connie just a little more carefully, analysing her words to see if there was something he was missing. It was frankly exhausting to have to focus outside the Grid _and_ inside it, looking for threats.

But for now, he needed to think about the meeting with Khordad. He pulled his car to the curb, got out, and walked toward the tall man who stood waiting for him.

"You and I can do business, Mr Pearce. I think we've learned that much." Khordad held out an envelope for Harry, who took it. He opened it and pulled out the papers, some of them typed documents, and some of them diagrams that looked to be a weapon of some sort.

Khordad explained. "The Tajr-6, third generation Iranian missile, payload 3000 kilograms, launch system land or sea. Meet your new enemy." Harry felt a chill go down his spine as he looked up from the papers to Khordad, who continued, "Professionally manufactured, high-spec missiles, capable of striking any target within the UK."

Harry had a number of questions, but he didn't voice the most obvious one: _Why on earth would Khordad be giving me this information?_ His second question, he spoke aloud. "Who has these?"

"People." Not a tremendously helpful answer, but expected.

Harry asked what Khordad was expecting in return for this intelligence, and Khordad told him exactly what he wanted. "My mission remains the same. Justice for Palestine. A corrupt-free Saudi Arabia.

The U.S. out of the Middle East. I will do anything to achieve those ends. Anything. If these are used, our cause will be put back decades. We may never recover. I can't let that happen." Khordad paused. "I can't stop them on my own. I need your help."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "You want _me_ to eliminate elements within your own organisation. That's why you've risked everything?"

Khordad gave an almost imperceptible nod. "It's either that, or all-out war. A war we both know neither of us can win. We both have dangerous friends. Perhaps between us, we can make sure they don't destroy the world."

Khordad put out his hand for Harry to shake. Harry thought of the papers he now held in his other hand and the missiles that could be, right now, trained on Britain.

Khordad's hand was still suspended between them. "The future," Khordad said. Harry clasped the Pakistani's hand firmly in his own, and he was reminded of Connie, saying "Sometimes you have to sup with the Devil to see what he wants."

Khordad might not be the Devil, but he certainly was well-acquainted with him.

* * *

"'Night, Ros," Ben said, as he passed by her desk on his way to the pods.

"'Night," Ros answered, just shutting down her computer. She stood and walked to Harry's door to see if there was anything else he needed from her. She was surprised to find Harry standing behind his desk with his best bottle of Ardbeg 17-year-old single malt, pouring out two glasses. Ros knew that was the bottle he saved for only the most special of occasions. It was worth just over two hundred pounds.

She took in the sight not only of the bottle, but of the recipient of the second glass Harry filled. Connie. Except that somehow, Connie didn't seem in a very festive mood. Ros assumed that was because Connie also knew the significance of the bottle, and was wondering why she was being thus honoured.

"What are we celebrating?" Ros asked. She stood in Harry's doorway, thinking this didn't look so much like a celebration as it did an interrogation.

"Saving the free world," Harry said, as he turned to give Ros a smile.

Ros smiled back as she reluctantly walked back out to the Grid. "Well, don't stay up too late." _Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation_.

Connie was relieved to see Harry's smile, because up to now, she had felt a bit like she was being called on the carpet. They had managed to save quite a number of lives today. Perhaps Harry was simply wanting to enjoy a glass of fine scotch with an old friend. But really, she doubted it. Connie was squarely on her guard.

She reached out to pick up her glass. "Saving the free world, I'll drink to that."

Connie was right to be suspicious, and that was Harry's aim. He knew that the bottle of Ardbeg was notorious, practically legendary, on the Grid. It sat in his cupboard, quietly continuing to age, until something very extraordinary happened. He would bring it out on occasion for the Home Secretary, or if a visit by the DG was warranted. But for a lowly member of the Grid? Not a common occurrence.

Harry knew that Connie would question it, and that was what he wanted. He wanted her to wonder what he was up to, and to watch her react to it. They were like two old lions, circling one another. He was still standing behind his desk as he looked across at her.

"You know, we might be able to work with Khordad. It'll be a long bumpy road, but with a new resident in the White House, who knows? This could be the beginning of the beginning of the end."

Harry offered his glass, and Connie touched hers to his, saying, "Hear, hear."

As he sat down, Harry got to the real reason for the meeting. Betrayal. On the way back from meeting Khordad, he had remembered a story that presented an ideal way to raise the subject of betrayal, without actually doing so.

In a cordial, offhand way, he began. "You know why people chink glasses before they drink? Apparently it's attached to an old fear that an enemy might poison your drink." On the word "poison," he looked pointedly at Connie, holding her gaze for just a moment longer than necessary. Connie sat, seeming to listen impassively, although her heart was something short of calm.

Harry continued, his eyes fixed on her. "So crashing tankards together meant that a bit from either drink spilled into the other." He let the words sink in, and then, when he was sure she was suitably agitated, he dropped the final brick. "Hugo Prince told me that. Back in the day."

Harry kept his eyes down now, on his drink. "You and he were quite close, weren't you?" Not until the end of this question did he raise his eyes to hers. She was smiling, as he expected she would be. Now Connie knew the reason for the meeting, for the scotch, and for the interrogation. She was a pro, and Harry knew it. He just wanted her to know that he knew exactly what he was doing.

Harry understood that Connie would have two options in answering his question. She could realise she was cornered and tell him the truth. Or she could continue the facade and hold the secret.

_The secret_. As the word went through Harry's mind, time slowed down, and then stopped. Two people who worked for the Security Services who had fallen in love, and had decided to keep it a secret. Harry imagined himself in Connie's place, being asked the same question. Or worse, he imagined Ruth sitting there, many years from now, at Connie's age, and after his death, being asked this question. What would Ruth say? He knew the answer before Connie even spoke it.

"Me and Hugo? Hardly knew him. I remember he was always very highly spoken of."

Harry took a sip of his scotch, and his face remained still, but he was now as rattled as he imagined Connie was. Whether Connie was a traitor or not, Harry felt a sudden bond with her, an understanding of the unfathomable sea of memories that can be carried around inside a human being.

He was aware of how superficial his question had been. _You and he were quite close, weren't you?_ If he imagined someone asking that question of Ruth, he would wonder how she could distil the time they had spent together, their profound connection, and the depth of their love into something someone else could understand. He would almost hope Ruth wouldn't dignify the question with an answer. That she wouldn't stoop to trying to make it comprehensible. That she would answer as Connie had. _Me and Harry? Hardly knew him_.

Just then, Ros came in to Harry's office. "There's something you should see."

Khordad was dead. Either that, or as good as dead, depending on what news had been fed to the BBC by the cousins. His plane had gone down over the Ural Mountains in northern Kazakhstan, where the Americans just happened to have an airbase.

"Why do we bother?" Harry said, dismayed.

"Because it would be a lot worse if we didn't," Ros said firmly.

"Would it?" Harry asked.

Ros looked at him, and her worry about Harry's state of mind increased. He was actually beginning to sound as if he was giving up. "You know it would."

Connie approached them, coming out of Harry's office. She had just dodged a bullet, and she knew it. In the nick of time, another crisis had reared its ugly head and had allowed her escape the questions she had no desire to answer. She said wryly, "So, the Americans have done it again." Connie looked right at Harry. "God defend me from my friends. From my enemies, I can defend myself."

Harry watched as Connie walked past him. He suddenly felt a weariness that went right down to his bones. His hopes of being able to work with Khordad toward peace had just been blown out of the sky by the Americans. And Connie. How could he begin to express how he felt about someone he had long considered a friend, but who he now feared might be completely the opposite. He still couldn't be sure she was the mole, but with each passing day, he had to acknowledge that his alarms were sounding more insistently.

_God defend me from my friends._

* * *

Ruth couldn't think of a place more beautiful than Cyprus to celebrate Christmas. It was a solemn, traditional, and deeply religious time, played out in a mostly Greek Orthodox town. Work hours were relaxed, beautiful carols, or _kalanda_, were sung, and a sense of reverence descended on Polis.

The lovely aroma of sweet almond cookies, roasted turkey, and _Christopsomo_, the Christ bread, filled the streets as people walked to and from church. And not just Christmas Day, but the entire holiday season, which lasted from December 6th, with the Feast of St. Nicholas, all the way through to January 6th, with the Feast of Epiphany. She learned quickly that as the names implied, a remarkable amount of cooking and eating was involved.

Of course, that meant Christina was completely in her element. During the holidays, Ruth was often in the kitchen at the vineyard house with Christina, laughing over a glass of wine as she learned the traditional recipes and customs of this holiest of times. The extended Constantinou family gravitated toward the vineyard in droves. Ruth had met many of them during the harvest, but now, rather than being a stranger, she was considered one of the family. This was a result of their natural warmth and their inclusive nature, but Ruth also understood completely that in the eyes of his family, she was expected to become George's wife one day.

Not all of the feelings brought on by this expectation were unpleasant to Ruth. She loved being a part of a large family, and she couldn't remember having been hugged so thoroughly and so often. She could enjoy it because she was continuing to be honest with George. She didn't feel guilty about deceiving him, at least not about her feelings.

But George still had no idea what her life had been before Cyprus, and he hadn't asked her. She told herself that she didn't tell him about her work in MI5 and the danger she'd been in there because she didn't want to worry him or cause him pain. She could also rationalise that he really didn't need to know, because there would never be a reason for it. In truth, Ruth made an effort not to dwell on thoughts like these. She tried very hard not to delve deeper than the thin, brittle surface of her own heart. She likened it to picking a scab. The wound was covered over now, and she thought maybe, just maybe, if she left it alone, it would heal and become new, fresh skin.

But in the quiet of her own flat, when she had no distractions, Ruth sometimes had to face the truth. She knew her lack of feelings for George had only to do with Harry. She'd tried so hard to burn the bridge to him, but no matter what she did, it remained. One strand of rope held firmly across the chasm, one she felt she could still walk across, back to her old life. Back to Harry. She'd tried to cut it, to make it disappear, but she would turn and there it was again, linking them, seemingly forever. She also continued to check the _l'Alcove_ server. Only once a week now, and she did it secretly, guiltily, like an alcoholic sneaking a forbidden drink.

George had stopped asking Ruth if she loved him, although he told her often that he loved her. She told him that in her mind she had let go of the other man, and that she was now waiting for him to leave her heart. It was the honest truth, and sometimes Ruth could convince herself that if, indeed, Harry's memory did fade, she might be able to love George. And Christina had been absolutely right. George _was_ a patient man.

Perhaps it was his strict Greek Orthodox upbringing, or perhaps he knew that pushing Ruth would never succeed, but George was letting her find her own way to him. He kissed her goodnight every time he dropped her off after dinner, or a movie, or one of their many walks on the beach. He held her hand, he put his arm protectively around her, and he often pulled her warmly to him for long minutes at her door. But he never let his hands roam, and Ruth never felt an urgency from him to go faster or further than she wanted.

Ruth was intensely grateful to George, and she cared for him deeply. But when she tried to imagine making love with him, she found she had to close her eyes, and a sigh would escape as a feeling of fatigue descended on her. She felt that as soon as she took that step, she was resigning herself to never again feeling the intensity and the passion she had known with Harry. She told herself that she needed to be a bit stronger to take that leap. She simply wasn't ready yet.

* * *

Harry made his way past Birmingham on the M6. This time, he was the one driving out to Liverpool, and Malcolm sat in the passenger seat. It was Christmas Eve, and Malcolm's mum had gone to spend a few days with her sister in Brynmill, so Harry and Malcolm had decided to take Tom and Christine up on their kind offer to spend Christmas with them.

Both Harry and Malcolm seemed to be at home in their own thoughts on this drive, and they'd been friends for so long that there was no awkwardness in silence. Harry had Beethoven's _Rondo in C major_ on the car's CD player, and it flowed well with the countryside as it moved quickly past them.

Christmas was an odd holiday for Harry. He wasn't a strongly religious man, and his adult Christmases seemed only to hold memories of tension with Jane, and of disappointing Graham and Catherine with his absences. Terror doesn't take holidays. In fact, as with Remembrance Day, they seemed to be ideal times for a terrorist to make a point. People gathered together during the holidays, and it was a time when the tragedy of a bomb or a kidnapping seemed particularly acute and poignant. Holidays had become only the targets of terror to Harry.

As he drove, Harry was recalling what he had done in years past. He remembered Ruth standing at his door one Christmas Eve as she was leaving the Grid, on her way to take gifts to a friend's son and daughter. He could still see her, bundled in her coat, scarf, and hat in preparation for the cold, her arms filled with bags, her face wearing the childlike excitement of the holidays.

He'd looked up from his desk and smiled at her, despite a morose mood that seemed to be brought on by the abundance of good cheer around him. She'd been so beautiful standing there, and now as he remembered it, he'd wanted to stand, walk to the door, and break all of his rules about professional detachment. He remembered thinking that on this day it might be permitted, a friendly hug from the boss, the season giving permission for him to fold her in his arms, to feel what it was like to hold her.

Instead, of course, he had simply tilted his head at her and said, "Off out, Ruth?"

"Yes," she'd said, cheerily, as she nodded. She'd held up the bags, smiling wider, "Playing Santa."

"Ah, good," was all he'd managed to say. He wanted her to stand there for a while, because he longed to etch the picture in his mind. When Ruth let go into happiness and really smiled, there was a way that her eyes danced. He didn't get to see it often, so he wanted to keep her there as long as he could. But he suddenly became aware that he was staring, and smiling at her, and he thought he must look a proper idiot, so he turned back to his desk and picked up a pen, just to tear his eyes away. Still looking down at his papers, he'd said, awkwardly, "Well, you have a good night, Ruth."

He'd always felt he wasn't very good at hiding his feelings from Ruth. He would try to, and she would pause and narrow her eyes slightly, as if she were peering into his soul. That night, she'd stood there, deciding, and then finally had asked, "Do you have plans, Harry?"

He'd kept his eyes down. He'd been expecting this question. He got it every year from someone or other. It was the curse of being alone at the holidays, that everyone felt they needed to draw you into the warm bosom of their families. He had to admit that the idea of going to watch Ruth hand out packages to people she loved was a more attractive prospect than any other offer he'd gotten lately, but still, he knew that he would refuse.

Perching on the edge of a sofa in a room full of laughing children at Christmas, eggnog held gingerly in hand, trying to smile ... no, Harry had tried it once and had vowed never to do it again. It made him more acutely aware of the fact that his children no longer sought his company, and that he had let them down at Christmas more times than he wanted to dwell upon.

And then Harry thought, _What if I simply say what's running through my head right now?_

_What I'd like to do, Ruth, is to go somewhere with you, and have a drink. I'd like to walk with you along the Thames and look at the lights, and to see if, with you, I could find some joy in this season. I'd like to hear you talk about your Christmases, what you wanted as a child, what you ate at your Christmas dinner. I'd like to hear you talk about anything, really. There's no one I'd rather be with tonight than you, Ruth._

Instead, Harry lied. "Yes, yes, of course." He finally looked up at her. "Meeting some friends," he'd said, nodding. He didn't think he was doing a very good job of lying, however, because a flash of pity crossed her face before the smile returned.

Ruth went along with it to save him embarrassment, but she gave him one more chance. "That's good. Because if you didn't have plans, I was going to ask if you ..."

He put away his files, and looked at his watch, just for effect, "No, no. Actually, I'm off as well." He glanced up at her and forced a smile as he stood. "Mustn't be late." Her smile was gone now, and her eyes were no longer dancing. He needed to end this, or he would simply go to her and give her that hug. Instead, he inclined his head toward the pods and said, "Or you."

Ruth nodded. "Or me," but still she had stood there. Finally, she had let out a small sigh, and said, softly, "Merry Christmas, Harry." She had come to his door full of life, and now she looked as if she might actually cry. _What an extraordinary effect I have on people_, Harry thought. _Happy bloody Holidays from Harry Pearce._

He'd gone home that night and grilled himself a steak. He'd listened to _The Messiah_ and cut some small pieces of the meat for Scarlet, putting them down next to him at the kitchen table. "Merry Christmas, girl," he'd said, as she ravenously consumed her holiday dinner. One more scotch and then he'd gone upstairs.

Now, driving to Liverpool, Harry stretched his arms on the steering wheel and looked over at Malcolm, who was nodding along with Beethoven. He reached his hand out and turned down the music. "Malcolm?"

Malcolm turned to him, his eyebrows raised. "Yes?"

"What do you imagine Christmas is like on Cyprus?" Harry didn't wait for the answer, but turned his eyes back to the road. "Probably girls in white dresses, carrying banners down the middle of the cobblestone streets, church music everywhere, the smell of bread baking ..." His voice trailed off. Malcolm was the only one he could do this with, and he knew he was indulging himself, but he couldn't help it. Harry was fervently wishing he had asked Ruth about that walk on that Christmas Eve.

Malcolm simply looked at him for a time, pensively, and then, he spoke. "Harry, may I speak as a friend?"

Harry laughed softly, knowing what was coming. "Yes, Malcolm. I count on it."

"You need to make a decision. You've got your feet in two different places, and you need to choose." Malcolm paused, but Harry stayed silent, listening. "You can either go to her, or you can stay here, but you need to do one, or the other, fully. Otherwise, you're going to tear yourself right down the middle, and then you won't be any good to any of us, including yourself."

Harry knew every word was true. He knew it because he felt it. "I know," he said, softly. "I just can't help wondering if she's alone on Christmas, but of course, she wouldn't be, would she?" He looked over at Malcolm, who was simply gazing at him tolerantly. "No, she'll have friends to spend it with, probably many of them ... " Harry stopped himself and looked back at the road.

"Harry." Malcolm waited until Harry looked back at him, and then said, simply. "Let her go."

For just a split second, Malcolm saw a look of raw pain move across his friend's face, and then the mask was back. Harry turned away, and said, "This from the man who has waited six years without losing hope?"

"Hope, Harry. Not desperate longing. Not ... not ... _agony_." Malcolm now kept his eyes on the road as well, because he found it hard to say these things whilst looking at Harry. "It's different with Sarah and me. She's a wish I hold for the future, a life I hope someday to lead. As I've said, she mightn't even be there when I'm ready for it, and I'm reconciled to that." Malcolm paused for a moment before continuing. "But you and Ruth, it's like ... well, _breathing_. It's as if she _is_ your life. You can't go on like this."

Harry kept his eyes forward as well. "Then tell me how I let her go."

Malcolm spoke forcefully. "You just do it. You choose it. You put her aside, along with all of the other feelings that don't fit with this job. When she intrudes on your thoughts, you say to her, 'No, not now. I'll get back to you later.'"

Now Harry looked at Malcolm, and he smiled at his old friend. Malcolm had the same look he wore when he was putting his foot down, when he'd had enough. "Just like that, Malcolm? 'I'll get back to you later?'"

Malcolm looked out the windscreen again. "Just like that."

Harry paused for a moment to let the words sink in. _Just like that_.

"Thank you, Malcolm." Harry turned back to the road, and reached over to turn the music up again. Ruth was fully in his mind now, especially the picture of her in his doorway on Christmas Eve. He imagined himself getting on a plane and going to Cyprus, showing up at her door, and wishing her a Merry Christmas. But he knew that wasn't the end of the story.

He would get back on another plane, there would be another goodbye, and he'd be left with the same feelings he had now. But what if he didn't come back to London? What if he stayed there, and they lived out their lives together, watching the girls in the white dresses every Christmas?

The hardest truth Harry had to face was that the idea of being away from the Grid forever was nearly as difficult for him to bear as the thought of being away from Ruth forever. Connie. Sugarhorse. The relationships he'd built so painstakingly with his superiors. Assets like Bernard. The experience and knowledge Harry had amassed over his years of service. His love of Queen and country. His desire to protect them. His feeling that he was, in fact, making a difference, no matter how uphill the climb.

_Just like that._

Malcolm was right. It was time for Harry to let go. Not of his hope for the future, but of his daily desire for Ruth, of his _agony_, as Malcolm had called it. As Harry listened to the magnificent strains of Beethoven, he imagined Ruth in the white dress of their wedding, but now she was walking down the cobblestone streets of Polis as he remembered them. Celebrating Christmas, a part of the town, a part of the life there, at home.

And although he knew letting go wouldn't be nearly this easy, he took the first step now, and walked away from her. He left her laughing and dancing in the white dress, and this time he didn't allow himself to make her sad, to change her mood. Although Harry knew he would have to repeat this process over and over until it could really be true, he opened his hands, and released her to her happiness.

_Just like that._

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE**

* * *

Harry and Ruth might have been surprised to know that at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve, they each had identical wishes. For peace in their hearts, for the ability to move on, and for the other to find happiness.

As they moved into the new year they were no less in love than they had been in Bath. Each had struggled against that love, wishing with all their hearts that they could remove it, sublimate it, put it firmly in their past, and each had failed. Now, on this day of resolutions, they gave up the fight and asked, at the very least, that they be allowed to live with it. To put it away like photos from a lovely holiday, in safekeeping but seldom looked at, a memory only.

Ruth moved through the winter and into the spring on Cyprus with a growing regard for George, and a sense of familiarity that made him more and more a possibility as a partner for the rest of her life. She had ridden the crest of the wave with Harry, had been thrown brutally to the sand, and now she floated peacefully, unexcited, subdued, and wishing for nothing more than simply to be allowed to breathe freely again.

George had found the perfect house, and it was so close to what she had imagined that Ruth could almost talk herself into feeling it was meant to be. It sat nestled in the trees, high above the sea, and felt as if it was alone on the mountain. Only ten minutes from the vineyard, and fifteen minutes' walk from a small, family-owned mountain market, but still completely separate. Its walls were both built of, and surfaced with, natural rock. That, and the lush greenery that surrounded it, made the house feel almost as if it had been carved out of the land.

Looking out on the sea, there was a lovely porch, already equipped with an outdoor kitchen that also overlooked the pool. Ruth had stood there with George, and she could almost see herself cooking in the sultry days of summer, feeling the breeze off the water. There was no herb garden, but one could easily be planted in the rich soil at the edge of the patio, down by the fence.

It had been owned for years by a couple from Italy who had used it only in the summers, but they were becoming elderly, and were considering buying something closer to town. George had talked with them, and they would be willing to sell if a suitable replacement presented itself. So now George, bless him, was functioning not just as the only paediatric surgeon in town, but also as something of a real estate agent. Ruth's feelings for him were growing every day.

She did love him, as she loved her friends. As she loved Christina, as she loved Polis. Ruth had the same kind of love for George as she had for Isabelle, one that grows from laughter, and daily care, and the understanding that love is a precious commodity that's not to be wasted. George seemed to love her enough for the both of them, actually, and she would have been very lonely without him and the family that he'd brought into her life.

But her feelings for George were growing in a separate section of her heart than the one where Harry lived. Ruth still had moments every day, sometimes many times a day, when she would float back to Harry on the power of a thought, and her chest would tighten with the loss of him. She had discovered that anger and indignation worked best to offset the pain, so when she felt herself beginning to travel to him, she stood in her own way, saying, "He's not here. He could be, but he's not. That's his choice." It would cause her lips to flatten and her eyes to go cold for just a fraction of a second.

George had learned to recognise those looks, and they were usually followed by a short period of silence. He'd found that the best way to move through them was to simply take Ruth's hand in his own and hold it. After a few moments, she would feel the warmth of it and look at him. Her eyes still held the deep sadness of the place she had been, but they would soon smile, and he would have her back.

In a strange way, George had come to appreciate these episodes, because he was seeing them decrease by small steps. And he couldn't help thinking that if Ruth was capable of this depth of love for someone else, she would also be able to offer it to him someday. He certainly felt it for her.

They had talked about the house, and Ruth had said perhaps. She'd begged off until the spring, and now spring was here. Her flat was feeling smaller to her, and as her life had expanded out to the vineyard house, so had her heart. She'd become a sort of assistant to George on his weekend rounds, and she found she looked forward to the long rides on the bumpy dirt roads in the mountains, and the routes that always ended with the gracious hospitality of the generous, open-hearted Cypriot people who lived there.

Ruth looked out at the mid-March sunshine and remembered back to the first time she'd gone on rounds with George. She'd had no idea where she was for most of the day, and the mountains had seemed an endless series of loops and cutbacks folding in on each other. Now she knew each road as well as she'd known the streets of London or the path from her flat on the Rue du Banquier to _l'Alcove_. She knew exactly who lived on which piece of land, and she looked forward to the greetings they would receive in each warm kitchen.

Today, they were on their way to the Miklos house, where the patriarch, Xristakis, was suffering through what George was certain was gall bladder disease. He'd tried repeatedly to get him to come into the hospital, but the man was exceedingly stubborn. Ruth looked forward to seeing the Miklos family, because children, grandchildren, cousins, aunts, uncles, and any number of friends would be there whenever Ruth and George visited. They were a lively and vibrant family, and Ruth had started bringing treats for the children, just a small toy or a postcard from somewhere exotic, or something sweet. When she arrived, they would surround her like baby chicks, pulling at her pockets and laughing.

Ruth smiled over at George, and realised she was happy. In this moment, no matter what came after it, she was content. Her days had an order to them, a simple progression of one thing to another. There were no real crises, no surprises. There were certainly emergencies at the hospital and here in the mountains, but even those events had a set of procedures to be followed, a known quantity of solutions.

Hadn't she said once that she thought simplicity and elegance wouldn't be enough for her? She had meant it then, but that was before Polis, before George, and before her heart had been shattered into so many pieces that she despaired of ever recovering all of them. She had thought that simplicity was boring, but these days, she was of a mind that boring wasn't half bad, really.

George looked over at Ruth, and again, he felt his heart flood with hope. There was a softness in her eyes that forced him to breathe in sharply as he smiled at her, and he knew that now was the time he'd waited for.

"It's spring," he said, smiling cryptically, but he knew that she would know exactly what he was saying.

Ruth's smile grew wider. "Yes, it is." They liked to play with each other, as friends do. She found it easier, because in a strange way it masked the lack of deep love in their relationship. So Ruth continued smiling and looked out of the side window, teasing him. "Yes, lovely."

She knew he was going to ask about the house, and she was ready to say yes. Trouble was, the house came with so many other things. She couldn't very well move in with him and continue to kiss him goodnight at the door, now could she? And beyond sleeping together, she knew that George wanted very much to marry her. Although Polis had moved a few decades further into the 20th century, it was still not common practice for a man and a woman to share a home without the benefit of marriage.

But Ruth had thought very long and hard about this, and she felt prepared to take the leap into a new life. She wasn't sure what it would look like, whether or not it would include marriage, or how it would feel. She was frightened and nervous, but she didn't think she would ever be more ready than she was now.

She turned again to him, and forced her face to remain blank. "Yes."

His eyes grew wide, and for a moment she worried that he might lose his way on the road. "Yes?"

Now she gave him just the hint of a smile, and nodded. "Yes." He was still looking at her, and her smile grew as she said, "Do keep your eyes on the road, George. I'd like to live long enough to move into that lovely house with you."

His head snapped back to watch the road, and George released the breath he'd been holding. He paused for a moment, and then said, "That's good. That's very good." And now he wanted to ask her about everything, about marriage and children and most of all, when. But he held his tongue, as he'd gotten so used to doing. This was so much to have happen at once, after so many days of waiting.

Ruth looked out her side window and felt herself moving through the contradiction of relief and panic. She'd done it. Finally pulled herself off the fence. And mixed in with the other emotions, she felt the familiar twin pangs of heartache and anger that always came with the memory of Harry. _Well, that's that, my love. You wanted me to move on, and I've done it. Now please, Harry, leave me be_.

* * *

Closing the file in front of him, Harry leant back in his chair, surveying the Grid.

Connie sat at her desk as always of late, her head down, doing her job. Everything she did on the Grid now came across his desk, quietly and without fanfare. He hadn't asked her again about Hugo Prince, but he scrutinised her every move, and he knew that Connie knew it.

He wondered what he would do in her shoes, and he thought he might react the same way. If you know you're innocent, you allow your work and your loyalty to speak for itself. If you know you're guilty, you lay low and do your best to prove your innocence. He didn't know which one Connie was doing, but if Harry knew one thing about spying, he knew that time would tell.

Harry was communicating regularly now with a man codenamed Ivan in Moscow, who managed the Sugarhorse operation there. Under deep cover, Ivan had the ability to oversee and judge any threats to the operation, and the reports were that all was well, with no apparent security breaches.

And, just in case, there was one person in Moscow that Harry held in reserve, should he need her. A Sugarhorse operative, Maria Korachevsky. She was a person he would trust with his life, and one of the best operatives he'd ever known. When Sugarhorse had first been put in place twenty years ago, he and Maria had become very close. Through some long winter months they had talked about their lives and had found their philosophies to be much the same about the work they did. In a time of loneliness, Harry had allowed himself the comfort of her bed, although he'd not become involved emotionally, as she had.

When he'd left to come back to London, she'd placed a ring in his pocket. A blue stone set in silver, one that she'd worn throughout their time together. It was her most precious possession, and she'd said she wanted him to have it, along with her heart. The last words she'd spoken to him were, "Please come back to me." He never had. He'd told himself it was for her safety, but the truth was, he'd never intended their relationship to go beyond his time in Moscow.

Harry leant forward and put his head in his hands, rubbing his forehead. There were more Marias in his past than he liked to think about these days. He'd used so many people, bastard that he was, without much thought to their feelings. Assets. Purely numbers to tick off of a balance sheet, as the name implied. He still had the ring in his deposit box at the bank. And the truth was, he was still holding Maria as an asset, should he need her.

He sighed and looked out again at the Grid. Harry thought about that time in Moscow, but now he did it through the lens of his love for Ruth. He felt a twinge of regret as he wondered if the pain in Maria's heart could compare to the ache he felt now, still, after so much time without his Ruth. He hoped Maria had managed to move on, to find peace with his absence, because now Harry knew what it felt like to love deeply and have to let go.

Needing to think about something else, Harry turned on the BBC feed.

_The Bank of England has today ceased to prop up the financial markets, sparking fears that the reserves have reached a critical low. Earlier, Chancellor of the Exchequer Jillian Calderwood vigorously defended Britain's financial prospects._

Jillian Calderwood came on screen, looking suitably grave. She spoke with an assurance that he knew she didn't feel, because he had just talked with her.

"_I believe Britain is weathering the storm. That the worst of the credit crunch is behind us. There are no more losses to uncover, no more grounds for runs on banks. So my message to the British public is to have confidence in us, and confidence in themselves. Together we are putting Britain back on track."_

_Good job, Jillian_, Harry thought. _Quite convincing_. Harry looked at his watch, and then began to gather up the files on his desk. Harry knew that Jillian would be leaving the BBC studios and coming straight here to the Grid for a meeting, as would Francis Denham, the President of Highland Life Bank and a very old friend of Harry's.

In fact, when Harry had purchased Ruth's house in order to send her the money for it, he'd done so after moving the mortgage to Highland Life. He hadn't sold the house yet, because he was waiting for the market to turn again. He thought it would be a nice surprise for Ruth to suddenly receive another sum of money at some point in the future, representing the profit. At least that's what Harry told himself.

If Harry really examined his motives, he would see that keeping her house was a way to have a piece of her in London. He told himself that the cleaners he sent out each month were only to be sure it was ready to show at a moment's notice. And that the weekly visits he made there were to check up on the place, to make sure it wasn't being broken into.

But as he walked through the empty rooms, he couldn't deny that he felt her there, some residual energy that belonged to Ruth. At times, as he stood in her kitchen and remembered making sweet tea for her, he could even hear her laugh.

Harry stood and walked out to the Grid. He asked Lucas if he would show Jillian Calderwood and Francis Denham in when they arrived, and then he made his way back to his office to wait.

* * *

Amish Mani looked at the busy Paris street below him, as he stepped out on his balcony at the InterContinental Hotel. It was a cool night, but the lights of the cars were so beautiful as they moved down the _Place de l'Opéra_, that he stood for a time longer and watched them, sipping his coffee.

_Definitely a step up from the warehouse where I spent my day._

Mani found successful interrogations rather invigorating, and he had to admit he loved the drama of them. So much feeling, so many powerful emotions. Love, loss, and desperation so close to the surface. It made him acutely aware of how connected people are to their families.

As a boy Amish Mani had seen his parents die in a simple robbery attempt, whilst he crouched in a corner unseen, terrified. These sessions always took him back there, and he remembered himself huddled, powerless. But now he was the one with the power, and it seemed somehow to still his parents screams, to offer some vindication, some justice.

The pilot had been very helpful. He'd resisted at first, but had come around quickly. He'd saved his children, but of course Mani couldn't let him live after he'd told them what they needed to know. For the sake of the children, and because he was an honourable man, Mani had made his death fast and painless. He wasn't a monster, after all.

The man said that Harry Pearce and Sophie Persan had boarded his plane in France. Mani had a feeling that she was here in Paris, or had been. He had extensive connections in the city, and if Sophie had so much as left a pair of trousers at the dry cleaners under her name, he would find her.

From Paris, the pilot had flown them to Paphos Airport on Cyprus, where he'd spent the night in a hotel, while Harry and Sophie drove on to Polis. Just the two of them. Why hadn't they simply flown to Baghdad and stayed the first night there? Mani smiled as he brought the fine china cup to his lips and drank the last of his coffee. It sounded to him like a romantic interlude, and that made things infinitely more interesting.

Feeling a chill, Mani moved off the balcony and back into his suite. He would stay here until they had picked up a trail for Mademoiselle Persan. And Mani had no doubt they would find her. He always found the people he was looking for. Sophie would be very important to this process. Harry Pearce would not give up a secret if it were only his life in danger. But Sophie would make all the difference to Harry's state of mind. Mani had seen the looks they'd exchanged. He'd felt the heat between them.

Mani was looking forward to seeing how long Harry could last as he listened to Sophie cry out in pain.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER EIGHTY**

* * *

Harry had to know. He'd mulled over his suspicions about Connie for long enough, and it was time to force the issue. It wasn't the best time to do it, but he didn't suppose there was ever a good time to confront an old friend with betrayal. All he knew at this point was that not being able to trust Connie was taking more out of him than he had to give.

He parked his car a couple of blocks from Connie's house so that he could walk a bit and clear his head with some fresh air before seeing her. Harry knew Connie was cynical and jaded, and that she had a less than rosy picture of the Services, but he still felt a strong pull to believe she wasn't the mole. When she denied knowing Hugo Prince well, Harry had known she was lying, because he could see it in a flash of her eyes. But he'd understood why she'd lied.

And Harry was continuing his struggle to understand the new insight that he'd gained from loving Ruth. That insight led him to wonder if it even mattered that Connie and Hugo had been in love. In the time that Harry and Ruth had been together, through all their deep talks, Harry had never mentioned Sugarhorse. Why would he? In fact, it was the very depth of his love that made him want to keep her far away from any knowledge that might endanger her. So why was he assuming that Hugo would have told Connie?

Harry got out of his car and pushed the button to alarm it. It was a crisp March day, and he was glad he'd decided to walk a little. The world was in turmoil, especially the financial markets, and Britain was on the brink of bankruptcy. In particular trouble was the bank chaired by his old friend, Francis Denham. A meeting this morning had uncovered a threat to Francis' bank, Highland Life, in the form of Alexis Meynell, a merciless financial vulture. Meynell not only preyed on weak businesses, he actually went after whole economies, and these days it was Britain that was squarely in Meynell's sights.

Harry was extremely concerned for Francis and for Highland Life. He'd never seen his friend so distraught. Francis was afraid that Meynell was planning to start a run on the bank, and then to bet against it in the stock market. The bank would collapse, and Meynell would walk away with millions. So Harry had placed Ros on the inside of Meynell Holdings as a tax auditor. He was relying on her to get the proof MI5 needed to shut down Meynell's operation before he was able to ruin Highland Life.

The very fact that this seemed an odd time to ransack Connie's flat made it the perfect time to catch her off guard. Harry had tasked two MI5 officers to be waiting at Connie's door as she left for work this morning. They were then to take her back inside and begin pulling the place apart, and Harry had told them not to be gentle about it. He wanted to put her off her game, wanted her to feel violated and afraid. He knew Connie too well to think that timidity on his part would force her into any kind of confession.

Only the possibility of a breach to Sugarhorse could drive Harry to these measures. The operation was too important, and although this was one of the parts of his job that he truly hated, Harry knew it was necessary. And he wouldn't be such a coward that he would let others do it and not be there to feel the consequences. He would watch, and endure what he was sure would be Connie's accusing eyes.

As he walked up the steps to her flat, he saw Connie through the window, and yes, her eyes were all that he thought they would be. And as he felt himself falter a bit, Harry told himself again that this was the only way that he would know. Once he knew, one way or another, they could both move on.

Harry came around the corner and through her front door, steeled for her anger. She nearly spat the words at him. "Comes to something when you leave for work in the morning after thirty years in the Services and find yourself manhandled back by your own side."

Harry started with what he had rehearsed on the walk there. "If I suspect you of being part of a possible security breach..."

She cut him off, her voice indignantly high, "Security breach?"

He was determined to get through this, but Harry found himself sounding like he was trying to justify his actions to her. "...then I have to exclude you from the Grid and deny you access to communication."

The problem was, Harry was having trouble meeting Connie's eyes, because every time he did, he saw Ruth staring back at him. And that made him think that Connie and Hugo had simply been two people in love, and that Hugo, in all likelihood, had never so much as thought about Sugarhorse when he was with Connie. Harry's voice took on a slight tone of resignation. "Let's let these men get on with their job. I think we both know the outcome we're hoping for."

Connie stared defiantly back at him, and for a moment, they stood in silence. Finally, she said, with acid in her voice, "Well, I'd offer you a cup of tea, Harry," she looked under her brows at the man going through her kitchen cupboards, "But I'm afraid I might hinder the progress of your gorillas." She sat down at the table, her back straight, her lips pursed, and didn't say another word.

Although the chair wasn't offered, Harry sat across from her, still finding it difficult to meet her eyes. While he watched books being thrown on the floor and baskets being emptied in just the manner he had instructed, Harry had to give himself a stern lecture about the fact that this was his job, and he had nothing to apologise for. He closed his eyes for a moment, and rubbed his forehead, but it wasn't Connie he was thinking of. He was imagining his Ruth being asked questions about an operation of which she knew nothing, her things being thrown about, her face drawn and confused.

His Ruth. Would she always be his conscience? Forever in his head asking him questions that he'd never before asked of himself? Harry opened his eyes again, and Connie was looking at him. Her eyes were now narrowed, as if she saw some weakness that she'd never seen before, but then they quickly became accusatory again.

Harry looked back at her and sighed. She may as well have said it_. Yes, I know. I'm a cold bastard._

* * *

Ruth ran her hands over the white cotton of the shirt, again appreciating its feel. She found the buttons, touched them with her fingers, one by one, as he would have, skilfully turning them inside the tailored buttonholes, and then smoothing them down in the front. It was no longer starched and crisp the way Harry had liked it. Instead it was soft, from many washings and from the countless nights she had worn it to bed and left it wrinkled and warm from the heat of her body.

It had been in her drawer for two months now, unworn. She no longer rubbed the collar with the soap, although at first she'd had to fight the urge to do so. It was another addiction Ruth had mastered, but still it never left her thoughts. She hadn't put it on, but she'd known it was there. Each day as she reached into her drawer for fresh knickers she had seen it, peeking from the shadows in the back, just as Harry peeked from the shadows of her mind, always.

And now another decision. She knew that she should place the shirt in the box of things she was sending to the Polis Community Centre for the thrift shop. She tried to imagine Harry's shirt on one of the poor men in the mountains, its high quality and fine tailoring being tested day by day with the sweat and dirt of hard labour and farming. A catch on a harvesting knife would start a small rip, which would grow and fray. Finally, tattered and no longer any colour resembling white, the shirt would move into the rag heap to clean equipment and live in the shed. And as she sat on the side of her bed, Ruth thought miserably that it would be a fitting end for another symbol of their love.

For now, Harry's shirt had a new purpose, as it served to catch Ruth's tears. She wasn't ready to make this decision. She'd sat here on the bed for twenty long minutes holding it, turning it over in her hands, dealing not only with the shirt itself, but with the flood of memories that it held. And giving it up, of course, was not just giving up the shirt. It was letting go of another strand of the rope, breaking a piece of the thread, extinguishing one of the very last shreds of hope that still held a tiny flame alight in her heart.

Ruth stood, finally, and walked to the bathroom. She opened the cupboard and took out what was left of the sandalwood soap. She hadn't used much of it, but she wondered at how resilient it was, how the aroma still wafted from its waxy surface every time she held it to her nose. She wondered how long it would last. Not just the soap, but all of it. The aroma, her love for Harry, her refusal to let things go.

Ruth sighed deeply, and pulled off her t-shirt. She was packing today, so she wore no bra, and now as she pulled Harry's buttoned shirt over her head, she felt the familiar smoothness as it slid down her arms, over her bare breasts, and rested finally on her neck. She hugged her arms around her chest and looked in the mirror at her rosy, tear-stained cheeks.

She looked down and saw the small, dark spots of moisture that spread into the cotton of the shirt, and then Ruth raised her head up to meet her own eyes. Desperately sad eyes, and at times like this, Ruth thought she had progressed no further than when she'd sat on the Vespa in the field after reading Harry's letter of goodbye so long ago. Now she knew that it would never go away, this longing for him. It was like the ghost pains that plague people who had lost limbs. The ache that resided in the ankle of a leg that was no longer there. And because it was no longer there, treatment was impossible. They lived with it, pure and simple. And so would she.

Ruth pulled the shirt back over her head and folded it gently, tenderly, on the sideboard. She straightened the collar and aligned the shoulders, tucking the sleeves carefully, methodically, behind. Then she took the soap and placed it in the centre of the chest, and folded the sides over it, holding it firmly inside.

She put her t-shirt back on and went out to her carryall on the bed. Harry's white shirt would go with her to George's house, to her new house. It shouldn't, but it would. Ruth sighed again, knowing that she had lost this battle. But the next one, she was determined she would win.

Tomorrow night, she would sleep in the mountain house. The house that was everything she'd imagined, and more. She would sleep in the same bed with George, and she knew that what would happen there hadn't a chance of matching even a kiss with Harry. She would give her body in the hope of finding something, anything, to fill the spaces that still yawned in her heart, and what she hoped now was that it would at least be pleasant, warm, and a tender way to show her love for her friend. God knew George deserved that much after all this time.

Ruth lifted what she'd already packed into her carryall, and placed the bundle of white cotton under it, safely at the bottom. Then she inhaled deeply and said aloud, wearily, impatient with her own weakness, "Let's get on with it, shall we?" and moved on to the next drawer of her armoire.

* * *

The minutes ticked by and the two officers seemed to be finding nothing. It was what Harry suspected, because of course, this was never really about finding anything. Connie was too smart to have Sugarhorse files in a kitchen drawer. This was more about intimidation, about letting her know that his mistrust had gone a notch higher.

The men finished, and the agent in charge gave him a look with a raised eyebrow, as if to say, _You're sure you want us to leave it this way?_ Harry returned the man's look with a slight nod. _Yes_. He rose and put his hand on the man's shoulder, leading both agents out into the hall.

Though he already knew the answer, Harry asked softly, "So, nothing?"

"No, found nothing, sir," the man said, as he moved past him outside the door.

"Thank you," Harry said, nodding.

Connie still sat at the table, her face marked by the anger she was feeling. Harry walked back into the room, closing the door behind him.

Connie crossed her arms and glared at him. "So, is that it? Is this over now?" She shook her head, incredulously. "Harry, I don't know what theory this is part of, or _what_ you've got on your mind." She put her head in her hand, dumbfounded.

Harry was still standing, and now he began to pace. "You want to know what's on my mind, Connie? You and Hugo Prince." He stopped pacing and looked down at her, sarcasm in his voice. "Well, then you barely knew him, did you?" He kept his eyes on her, willing her to continue to lie to him. Again the picture of Ruth came into his head, and he pushed it away, trying to convince himself,_ This is completely different._

And surprisingly, Connie broke. She looked down, and said more softly, "If I lied to you about Hugo Prince, it was because it was private."

"Then you don't deny that you had a long-standing affair with him?" Harry walked around so that he was even closer to her. This was the time for him to come in for the kill, but Harry didn't quite have the stomach for it.

Connie let out a loud sigh, and leant back in her chair. "I know what you're implying." She looked up at Harry with fresh venom in her voice. "But unlike you, Hugo knew when to stop." Now she spoke more softly again, with a hint of tenderness, "Whatever time we had, he didn't spend it talking about work."

"How sweet." He'd meant it to come out ominously, threatening, but he suddenly had a vision of Ruth surrounded by white sheets, laughing as they'd talked about travel, and food, and a wedding. He remembered how far away the Grid had seemed, how incongruous it would have been for him to inject Sugarhorse into that scene. He couldn't look at Connie anymore, so he turned away, and began to pace again. _Get hold of yourself, Harry. It's not the same. You need to do this_.

"It's true." Connie's voice was low, resigned. He almost heard her thoughts. _How can I explain real love to someone like you?_

Harry was committed now, and he wasn't leaving this flat without an answer. There would need to be shouting and anger for the truth to come out. He began to work his way up to it. "I might even believe it, if it weren't the case that there's no other explanation."

"For what?" Now Connie sounded truly angry.

"What did he tell you, Connie, about operations he and I worked on together?" Harry's voice was still soft, but it had taken on a menacing quality.

"Nothing, Harry. Nothing!"

"What did he pass to you?" Stronger now, and louder.

Connie now began to get indignant. "Harry, I don't deserve to be talked to like this."

"What did he pass to you?" Harry walked around the table, moving closer to her.

"Harry!"

"Don't!" Harry stood over Connie now, and leant down, threatening. "Because whatever it was, I will _not_ allow you to jeopardise the operation he and I worked on!"

Connie's hand came down hard on the table, and she stood. There were tears in her eyes, mixed with the anger and the hurt. "Fine. Do you want to see it?" She hurried over to a pile made up of the contents of her upside-down shelves. "Do you want to see the only thing Hugo Prince ever gave me?" She looked through the papers at the top of the pile, and found what she was looking for. A ceramic replica of Big Ben.

"I was summoned to his hospital bed. I thought it might be for some declaration of love, or meaningful token by which I could remember what we had," Connie handed it to Harry, still overcome with emotion. "Of course that wasn't Hugo's way. All I got was a pat on the bum and this tacky souvenir."

Harry trained his eyes on Connie from under his brows, trying to read her. He could usually tell when people were lying, but she was so full of emotion, it was hard for him to discern. She had certainly loved Hugo Prince, that much was clear, but whether her profession of innocence was simply an act was still up for debate in Harry's mind.

There was one thing Harry knew, and that was the reason Hugo had given this to Connie. It was a favourite trick of Hugo's, one he'd used many times. He'd known a man who created these cheap pieces of art, and had often hidden things inside them.

Harry threw the piece to the floor and hit it hard with the heel of his shoe. Connie cried out, seemingly suddenly aware of how precious it had become to her. Harry looked down amongst the pieces of broken ceramic, and there it was, a small cassette tape, appropriately old-school. On it was a typed label that read: HARRY PEARCE.

Now he knew Connie had no idea the tape was hidden, as there was no one who could act the surprise he saw on her face. She couldn't take her eyes off it. "I promise you I've never seen that before in my life."

"Get me a player," Harry said, his voice low and uncompromising. As Connie rummaged around for the mini-cassette player, Harry's heart was pounding. Was this to be a confession? Hugo telling him he was sorry, but yes, he'd told Connie everything? What would Harry do then?

Harry sat back down, and Connie joined him. They were both in the same chairs as earlier, but neither spoke a word. With shaking hands, Connie placed the tape in the recorder. She was so distraught, Harry knew this was as much a surprise to her as it was to him. She pushed the button to play the tape, and Hugo's voice, immediately recognizable and eerily disembodied, rose from the player.

"_Hello, Harry, it's Hugo. If you're listening to this, it's because there's been a breach. I think you'll know what I'm talking about. And if that's happened, then I know my relationship with Connie would have placed her under suspicion. That's why I've left you this message. Because I want you to be sure that at no time did I ever mention to Connie or pass on to her anything relating to the matters we worked on. Though I never told her, Connie was the most precious thing to me, maybe the most precious thing of all, and I know my selfishness has caused her enough harm when I was alive, and I couldn't bear to leave her vulnerable now that I'm going. I hope you understand."_

The sound of his old friend's voice, the tears making their way slowly down Connie's cheeks, and the sickness he felt in his heart, combined to nearly take Harry's breath away. He looked across at her, and now it _was_ Ruth he saw. The memories that must be going through Connie's mind right now, listening to Hugo's words, _Though I never told her, Connie was the most precious thing to me, maybe the most precious thing of all._ Another love unexpressed, another loss of two people who might have found happiness together except for the bloody job.

Suddenly all of Connie's cynicism, her sardonic nature, the flippant way she dealt with most affairs of the heart, came into clear focus. Is this how Ruth would end her days? Remembering a love that had meant so much, but now came down to only a voice on a tape? And a voice that didn't even speak to her, but spoke instead to Harry, and spoke about the work. _Though I never told her. Well, you still haven't told her, you coward, you've only told me, and she just got to listen_.

Harry looked across at Connie, and thought, _What have I done? A woman who has given so many years to the Services. A woman who was peacefully finding her way in the world until I dragged her back on to the Grid. A woman who lost the love of her life to a disease, but only after losing him many times over to his country. And here I sit, amongst her ravaged possessions, and accuse her of treason. I, who should know better._

Connie put her head in her hands as Harry reached out and turned off the player. And then, he too, raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing his eyes, feeling so completely like a bastard that he wondered how he would ever regain Connie's respect. He wondered if he even deserved it.

Tear-stained, Connie looked up at him, and she graciously let him off the hook. "It's all right Harry, I understand. I know you had to do it."

He still couldn't meet her eyes, and he had no idea what to say to her. Everything he could think of sounded hollow after the voice they had both just heard. He wondered what his friend and colleague Hugo Prince would think about the way Harry had treated Connie. He wasn't sure, but what he could do now was to trust her, and Harry promised himself he would put this suspicion behind him. He would tell Bernard that he had been wrong. Connie James was _not_ the mole on the Grid.

Harry was saved from having to formulate a reply by the feel of his mobile in his coat pocket, vibrating. He had felt it earlier as well, but hadn't wanted to stop his interrogation. Now, as much to cover his awkwardness as out of curiosity, he pulled it from his pocket and pressed the button to view the screen.

Seven missed calls, all from Francis Denham. Connie was still crying, and Harry still felt like a son-of-a-bitch, but now he had to go and find out what this was about. He was essentially still in the middle of an operation, and as he hadn't shared his suspicions about Connie with anyone else, no one knew where he was. He grimaced, and speed-dialled his voicemail. The first message sent a chill through him.

_Harry, it's Francis. I need to see you. Usual place. The situation is worse than I admitted. A lot worse. I'm afraid I may have destroyed everything._

Harry clicked off, and set down his phone. He could listen to the rest of them later, but he looked at Connie, his face somewhat stricken. She looked across at him, the tears subsiding, but still evident in her red-rimmed eyes. He shrugged slightly, and sighed, his look apologetic.

Connie shook her head and managed a sorrowful laugh. She put her hand up and waved him away. "Go. I know that look. Duty calls, Harry." Connie stood up. "I think I will have that cup of tea, if I can bloody well find it."

Harry also stood, and put his mobile in his pocket. He surveyed the disaster of Connie's flat, and said, half-heartedly, "I wish I could..."

She cut him off with a laugh, "Oh, I just bet you do, Harry. Go!" she said good-naturedly. "Get the hell out of here and go do your job." As Harry went out the door, he saw Connie making her way slowly through the debris toward the kitchen.

While Harry walked the two blocks back to his car, he listened to the other six messages from Francis. They all said much the same thing, _Please. I need to see you, now Harry. Please call. The usual place. Situation worse. Harry, please return my call._

It was lucky that their usual place was not far from Connie's. It was a section of the car park under a mall, and Harry was there within ten minutes. There was Francis' car, and Harry gave an inward sigh of relief. Now they could talk, and he could try to find some assurances to give his old friend that they would work this out.

As he walked toward the car, Harry's mobile beeped, but this time with a text message. He stopped walking and pressed the button. Another from Francis Denham, but this time, just a one-word message: SORRY.

Harry frowned, and looked at the car in front of him, not 20 metres away. And then he saw the hose. The one that snaked from the exhaust pipe, around the side of the car, and into a window, just barely open. And then he heard the engine running.

"Francis!" Harry started running. He saw him in the backseat, and felt the acrid sting of carbon monoxide as it wafted through the small space above the window. "Francis!" Doors locked. Harry ran around to the other side, and jerked the hose violently out of the window.

"Francis!" Harry knew he was dead. He knew that he was too late, and it was because he had been accusing Connie, a woman who was innocent. _Ah, Christ, another one lost because I was facing the wrong direction_. Harry felt suddenly that he'd lost his instincts, his spook sense. He peered in at Francis, who looked so old in the final peace of death, the deep lines etched in his face. Harry suddenly felt he was looking in a mirror, and thought, _Am I that old?_

He walked wearily over to the cement wall and slumped against it. Now the smell of the exhaust from the still-running car was reaching his nostrils, so he walked further away into an area with fresh air, and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He pressed in a number.

"Lucas? We have a problem. Francis Denham is dead. Suicide."

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE**

* * *

"Lucas. My office." Harry walked from the pods toward the hallway. A productive morning so far, he thought darkly. Ransacked the flat of a thirty-year Security Services veteran, and allowed another good friend of many years to feel so alone that he took his own life.

Harry had decided on the way from the car park that he had better start trusting the people around him and stop thinking of everyone as the enemy. He'd realised he'd been suspicious of Lucas too, ever since his arrival from Moscow, really, and that would stop now. He couldn't tell him everything, but he could at least let him know what was going on. If Harry was going to keep Sugarhorse on track, he was going to need allies.

He'd realised, as he was driving back to the Grid, that he couldn't do this alone. He thought of Francis' face again, of how alone he looked in the backseat of that car. He thought of Connie's face, bereft at the sound of Hugo's voice. And finally, Harry had a good long talk with Ruth in the car, asking her what he should do. He knew what she would say if she were really here, and her sweet voice came back to him, telling him to stop trying to go it alone, and to allow those around him to help him. She told him to trust someone.

Harry hung up his coat and jacket, and sat down at his desk, as Lucas followed him into his office. He opened his top right drawer and dropped Hugo Prince's tape into it, and then began, without preliminaries. "I have a confession to make. I'm afraid that when I told you I'd never heard of Sugarhorse, I was lying." Harry paused, and then continued, "And I need you to remember _everything_ that happened at the time that it was mentioned.

Lucas' voice had a hint of suspicion in it. "Why?"

"All I can tell you is that Sugarhorse is the most important network in the history of MI5. And now it's been compromised."

Lucas turned his back, and walked a few steps away from Harry. His voice was low, measured. "Do you know what they were doing to me when it was mentioned?"

"Yes." Harry knew this would be hard for Lucas, but it had to be done. Now that Connie was cleared, he needed to get a grip on this problem, determine some way to find out who the mole was. "And I still need you to put yourself back there. Who was present? Any detail that might ..."

Lucas was clearly already putting himself back there. His voice quavered as he remembered. "I was tortured for seventeen days, continuously."

Now Harry could see how affected Lucas was just by talking about this. The pain was visible on his face. He felt for him, but still he needed to know, and Lucas was the only one who could tell him. "Lucas, I..."

"Was Sugarhorse the reason?"

Harry almost said, _I don't know_. He nearly spoke it, but stopped himself. If Lucas could survive seventeen days of waterboarding, then the least Harry could do was tell him the truth as he knew it. "I'm certain it was."

Lucas looked at Harry with contempt. His voice was angry, low. "But now you want me to just put myself back there without telling me anything about what I was tortured for?"

"Lucas..." This was not going the way Harry had intended, certainly not the way he had imagined it in the car.

His voice rising, Lucas turned on Harry. "Don't you _dare_ try any of your sanctimonious, good-of-the-nation crap on me!" Now Lucas smiled cynically, and shook his head, "There are limits to what you can ask of people, Harry. Even in our business." Lucas went to the door and opened it, stepping out into the hallway.

Quickly, before Lucas could get away, Harry said, "I'm sorry." He couldn't look at Lucas as he said it, but he truly was sorry. At this moment, Harry was having a great deal of trouble understanding where things had gone so terribly wrong on the Grid, and his overwhelming feeling was that of having lost control. Of his people, of his emotions, and of arguably the most important operation of his entire career.

Lucas didn't acknowledge Harry's apology. In fact, far from absolving him, Lucas stepped angrily back into the office and said, "And by the way, if I were you, I'd talk to Jo. You probably haven't noticed, but she's in trouble over what happened. A lot of trouble." Lucas walked out the door again, and down the hall, leaving Harry alone.

_You probably haven't noticed_. Another indictment, and now about Jo. Harry had noticed, he'd just had no bloody idea how to handle it. He knew that after an experience like Jo's, it wasn't unusual for a woman to see her rapist's face. But Jo was seeing Boscard everywhere, even during ops, and Harry was afraid that she'd been traumatised more than anyone knew. Harry had been holding off, but now he thought it was time to use the only solution he could think of. He reached into his drawer and pulled out the Redbacks file.

Opening it, he touched the photos that lay at the top. Adam had filed his usual report on Jo's abduction and time in captivity with the Redbacks, but had then brought these photos and a secondary eyewitness report in to Harry for safekeeping. At the time, Adam was unsure about which report would function best to help Jo heal.

The two sets of reports told the same story: Boscard was dead. How he died was where the official report differed from the one Harry held in his hands. Jo, in her blind rage, had turned on Boscard with her fists. Adam had known that she needed to express that rage, and he'd closed the door and allowed her to take her revenge.

What Adam hadn't counted on was the extent of Jo's power in the throes of that rage. With her bare fists, Jo had killed Boscard, and then she had promptly blocked it from her memory. Harry took the photos and placed them in an envelope. As soon as they had Meynell safely where they wanted him, Harry would take Jo aside and show them to her.

_Yes, Lucas, I've noticed. I notice everything. I just don't always know what to do._

* * *

Ruth waited until the breathing next to her was rhythmic and even, and she quietly pulled the covers back and slipped out of bed. She walked naked to the closet and felt her way until she found her cotton t-shirts where she had just this afternoon put them on the shelf. Everything was new and strange, as if she were in a dark and foreign hotel room. She pulled the t-shirt over her head and made her way out of the bedroom. She walked past Nico's empty bedroom, remembering the sparkle in Christina's eyes as she'd offered to keep him for their first night together in the new house.

It was a pleasantly warm night, as Cyprus was starting its rise toward the hot summer she remembered from last year. Ruth tiptoed her way down the stairs and across the tile floors, and now she could move more by sight than by feel, as the doorway to the patio was illuminated by a bright moon, not full, but waxing toward it. She stepped out onto the smooth rock floor of the patio, and full into the moonlight.

She could see the water from here, the vast black Mediterranean with its dark blue flecks where the moon traced a line that led straight to the horizon. The blue of the Mediterranean. That's all it took, and Harry's arms were around her again. He stood behind her and whispered, "_Aquamarine"_ in her ear, and she pushed him resolutely away, whispering back, "_No, not on this night_."

Ruth walked down the four steps to the pool, and then pulled her t-shirt over her head, standing openly nude in the moonlight for a moment. She could feel the slight breeze that came off the sea, and it was cooler than it had been in the house. Ruth relished the privacy and the beauty of this place as she listened to the soft rustle of the leaves and the hushed chirp of the night birds. She felt she might be the only person in the world right now.

Her skin rose in tiny goose bumps as she steeled herself to step into the water, knowing that the unheated pool would be a shock, but she was looking forward to it. She wanted the freshness, the cleansing that it offered, and she walked down the steps without pausing, letting it take her breath away, until she was completely immersed, and swimming. She pulled herself under the sparkling moonlit water with strong arms all the way from one end to the other, and rose noiselessly. The flagstone around the pool was still warm from today's sun, and she crossed her arms under her head, feeling the welcome warmth rise up to her cheeks.

Ruth lay there, letting her legs dangle weightless, and listened to the light lapping of the water, and to her own breath. Now in the chemicals of the pool, she could feel the slight rawness of her face where George's beard had scraped, so rough, so different from ... _No, Ruth. Don't compare. That way madness lies, let me shun that_. Ruth's face moved into an incredulous smile even as her forehead wrinkled into a frown. _Quoting King Lear, just as Harry would_.

She let go of the edge of the pool and slipped under the water again, swimming silently so as not to wake George. She needed this time alone to process the change that had just happened. And she wanted to deal with the slender feeling of betrayal that had nagged at her from the very moment George had set down his glass of wine, taken the glass from her, and led her gently by the hand to the bedroom.

_Gentle_. That would be the word she would use to describe how George made love. As if she might break, and with a reverence that made her feel like a virgin again, almost pure, like a girl. It was nearly ... _charming_ ... if one could use that word to describe sex, and Ruth was grateful that it had served to remove her from the process, as if she wasn't expected to know how, or was even expected to participate. As if she were simply being worshipped. She knew that being worshipped could be lovely, but it also detached her from the worshipper. It created a separation between the two of them that she knew she would have to try to bridge someday.

Ruth stepped up to the stone surface around the pool and allowed the water to drip down her skin and collect around her feet. Now the air felt much cooler, and she shivered just a bit, moving toward the stack of towels on the rock wall. She pulled one around her, and its fluffy softness and fresh-washed smell was luxurious. She leant back against the wall and looked again at the sea. _What a life I have fallen into_, she thought. And fast on the heels of that thought came, _Ungrateful wretch_.

How many women in the world could never even dream of having this life? A beautiful house, exquisite nature around her, the richness of the pool with its cool water and privacy. It felt like living at a resort on an ongoing holiday. George had even told her she could stop working if that was what she wanted. She could stay here and plant her herb garden, tend the house, walk the fifteen minutes through lush trees on the road to the market, swim with Nico, cook, read books, and be loved by a man who had no other desire than to make her gloriously happy.

_What a species we are_. The words slipped unbidden into her head, but in quite a different context than the last time she had said them, sitting across from Harry and drinking white burgundy. Then she had meant that spooks were quite a species, combining the menacing talk of thermobaric bombs with the elegance of a refined evening over a glass of wine. Now the phrase took on a new meaning for Ruth.

This time she was chastising herself for wanting more. She was cursing the trait of human nature that takes for granted what it's given, and struggles after what's not. Ruth had everything here she could possibly want, and, desolately, she knew in this moment that she would trade it all for a life with Harry in the lowliest hovel anywhere in the world.

Moving to sit in the chair on the patio, Ruth sighed, and she felt the tears begin to come. She knew this would never stop, that Harry would never leave her. She'd known it for a long time, but she'd held out a desperate hope that making love with George would surprise her, and that the thread that held her to Harry would transfer to George miraculously in that most intimate act. But it hadn't, and now she knew for certain that it never would.

Making love with George had reminded her of Jonathan, the man at GCHQ. It was a strangely sterile blending of mind and body. She'd enjoyed the way Jonathon thought, and had wrongly assumed that the thrill she felt in his ideas would carry over to their lovemaking. Instead, although the closeness was always nice, she'd found herself going through the motions somewhat, and had felt a bit guilty each time about being glad it was over.

Ruth held the towel up to catch the tears that continued to fall soundlessly, trickling and blending with the chlorinated water that was still evaporating from her cheeks. That had been the revelation of making love with Harry. She'd thought she knew what lay ahead of her, even with him, but she'd quickly learned that anything she'd known before Harry had been a pale imitation.

As she'd done so many times, Ruth closed her eyes and relived those moments with Harry of climbing the mountain and then flinging herself off it with him. The weightless trusting, the split second where she lost complete awareness and could have been on any planet in the universe, as time stopped. Even now, sitting in the Cyprus moonlight, just thinking about it sent a chill down her neck and caused her thighs to tingle deliciously. And then the tears fell faster, as she realised she was feeling more, just thinking about Harry, than she'd felt an hour ago with the reality of George.

Ruth put her face down into the towel now, as she felt a sob rise in her throat. _Oh, Harry. No matter what I do, I can't stop loving you. However I try to wish it away, it's as strong as it was in Bath. Where are you right now? How do you feel? Do you miss me? Have you done what I've done and tried to move on? _Ruth remembered Harry's story of taking his legends out to the bars in order to find women to sleep with him, and she wondered if he'd dusted off those boxes and tried it again. And Ruth knew that she wasn't very different. Wasn't it nearly what she was doing?

George still knew nothing of her past or her life at MI5, and now Ruth knew she wouldn't tell him. She had never uttered the name Evershed to him. He knew nothing of her parents, and little of her childhood. Hadn't she pulled the legend of Faith Benson off a shelf and put it on? Hadn't George just made love to a shadow?

Ruth's tears slowed, and then stopped. She pulled the towel across her face and opened her eyes to the moon. It was the same moon that had smiled down on London and Paris, Calais and Baghdad, Havensworth and Bath. It was timeless and non-judgemental, and unconcerned with the dramas going on beneath its brilliant light.

Again, the thought came, _Harry could be looking at that moon right now._ And Ruth wondered if their memories could be enough to sustain them. She inhaled sharply and thought, resigned, _Well, they'll have to be, won't they?_

Standing, Ruth rubbed her hair dry in the moonlight, and then pulled the towel more tightly around her. She walked soundlessly back through the house, her new house, and padded up the stairs to the bedroom. Dropping the towel, she slipped between the cool sheets without waking George. In sleep, his arm went round her.

Closing her eyes with a sigh, Ruth allowed herself to be held.

* * *

Harry sat in his office, going over the final reports on Meynell and Highland Life. It had all turned out perfectly, with two glaring exceptions. The first was Francis' death, which continued to haunt Harry with "what ifs." What if he had left Connie's just a bit earlier, what if he had picked up his messages, what if, what if. Harry was feeling stretched to his limit, and utterly responsible. Not only for Francis, but for all of them. His team, Ruth, Connie, Jo, and now, for Ros.

She was the second part of the Meynell operation that was weighing on Harry's mind tonight. Ros had been forced into a corner with Meynell, and the only way out of it was to allow him to have sex with her. Not only allow it, but initiate it, ask for it, pretend to want it. Harry recognised the look in her eyes the moment she'd walked back through the pods. It was filled with the conflicting emotions of disgust, of triumph, of self-loathing, of pride.

Harry saw the look, and he understood the feeling, but he couldn't feel it from a woman's point of view and he knew it. And he still had to talk to Jo. Although Harry hoped somehow that Ros would choose to have that talk with her junior officer, and that she could bring some of her own understanding to Jo's pain.

Just as Harry tucked the Meynell reports into the folder, he heard a knock at his door, and looked up to see Lucas.

"Lucas. Come in."

"Harry, I was angry last night." Lucas' voice was much softer than it had been the last time he'd been in Harry's office. Harry was glad to hear it.

"That's understandable."

Lucas walked slowly across Harry's office, until he stood in front of his desk. "When I got home, I couldn't sleep, so I wrote down a few things, and it prompted a memory." Harry leant back in his chair, his attention now fully on Lucas, who continued, "When I was meant to be out cold, I kept hearing a word repeated. _Polomnik_."

Harry tilted his head in a question, and Lucas answered, "It's Russian for Pilgrim. I thought it might be the name of an operation or an asset that betrayed me. So I checked it out and..." Lucas opened up the file he had carried in, and pulled out a sheet of paper, "... the only link seems to be to an MI5 officer. He's quite senior but he seems to have been retired for a while."

Harry frowned slightly, and leant forward, putting out his hand. "May I see the file?"

"I think he runs some sort of second-hand shop in South London now." Lucas watched Harry's eyes as he handed him the file, but it seemed the only thing Harry could focus on was the profile sheet on top, the one with the photo and name of the retired MI5 officer. Harry's face had gone somewhat white, and his mouth moved as if he were about to speak, but words wouldn't come.

"Harry?" Lucas frowned. "You alright?"

In that moment, it all made sense. The accusation of Connie. The veiled questions, asking for more information. The face that stared back at Harry told the whole story. Much younger, less gray, but undeniably Harry's teacher, mentor, and friend. Bernard Qualtrough.

Bernard was _Polomnik_, an operative for the FSB, and the link from Sugarhorse to the Russians. Right now, the one thing Harry could be exceedingly grateful for was the fact that he hadn't given Qualtrough anything meaningful about Sugarhorse. He'd told him it was an important operation and that it had possibly been compromised. When he and Bernard had suspected Dolby, Harry had given Qualtrough files of other operations that had been compromised, but no information on Sugarhorse itself.

Of course, the primary thing Harry had given Bernard was his trust, and this news was a sharp blow to the gut. Harry suddenly realised that he hadn't breathed properly since Lucas had handed him the file.

What had Bernard called them? _The old team_.


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO**

* * *

It had been a very long day for Harry, and although he'd tried, he couldn't sleep. After wandering the rooms of his house, he finally landed in the study next to the grand piano. In his favourite brown leather chair, he turned on Mozart's _Requiem_ softly in the background, and switched on the recorder.

_My dearest Ruth,_

_I'm feeling completely adrift, and I have no other place to turn than to you, my love. I've been close to flying to be with you many times, but never closer than tonight. The only thing that stops me is the fact that I am at the centre of an operation so important, so delicate, and so utterly on the verge of collapse, that for me to leave right now would be tantamount to treason._

_This was not a good day, as I may have lost two good and old friends. One is certainly gone, to suicide, as the result of a desperation I can only imagine. The other I may have lost because I put my trust in the wrong person, and allowed myself to be swayed by paranoia and suspicion._

_I feel myself wanting to tell you the details, the facts of these two losses, but I know that you will be waiting patiently __for me to finish with all the minutiae and get to how I feel about it. __That's always been what matters to you, and I astonish myself with the realisation that it's what is beginning to matter most to me as well._

_I'll start with the man who committed suicide. __I'm overwhelmed by a sense of how alone he must have felt to have done such a thing.__ And I'm one who could write the book on feeling alone, my Ruth. There have been nights that I've sat downstairs with my scotch watching the fire, listening to whatever music wouldn't remind me of you, and I've wondered gloomily if the world would even miss Harry Pearce. For a time, perhaps, they would, but I sometimes feel that the waters might simply rush in to fill whatever space was left by my absence, and soon, all would be as it was before I made any kind of mark on the world. _

_Just to reassure you, I know that taking my own life is something I won't do. Before I would give up on life completely, I would give up this life here, and come to find a new one with you. You are the only companion I would seek. I would find sturdy travel carriers for our three girls, give Ros all my codes and get on a plane to Cyprus, never to be heard from again._

_Can you hear how I'm longing for that peace, my Ruth? But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep..._

Harry voice broke slightly, and he pushed the button and placed the microphone in his lap. Picking up his glass, he took a long swallow of its contents and closed his eyes. He tried to find Ruth in his mind, but he couldn't feel her arms around him as easily as he'd been able to just months ago. She was fading, not from any decrease of his love for her, on the contrary, he was certain he loved her even more in her absence. It was simply that his powers of recollection were diminishing, and it was like losing her all over again. He put down his glass, picked up the microphone, and pushed the button once more.

_Are you there? Can you still hear me? If I came to find a new life, would you be a part of it? In imagining that life with you on Cyprus, I have only our two days there as a foundation. Those two days, and one small piece of information that I was able to pry from the miserly Malcolm. Your Vespa. Such an absurd snippet of a picture it gives me, but so comforting nonetheless. With hair flying behind you from the wind off the sea (and then, for your safety and because of my love for you, I must conscientiously give you a helmet to protect your precious head, even in my dreams). You certainly have a smile on your face, sitting bravely upright, with places to go, and people to meet. It's a pretty picture, Ruth, and it makes me smile even on my darkest of days._

_But darkness is what started this letter, and I haven't told you of the second loss. Connie. Hard for me to think that you've never met her, but she's a tough old bird, as thick-skinned as they come, and I made her cry today. A particular talent of mine, making women cry. I've watched it my whole life, from my mother straight through to you, my Ruth. And always before, I've managed to put a woman's tears into a special category, a mysterious box filled with hormones, moods, and processes that men don't often want to understand. But even that is changing in me._

_Since you began to let me into your life, trusting me with its secrets, I've found that I see women as intelligent, strong and resourceful beings, with the added benefits of intuition and deep emotion. And isn't it interesting that I've just described you perfectly. I suppose now that I see all women through the window of my love for you. It makes me a better manager, certainly, but also makes me a better person. Forgive me if I've said these things before, as I believe I have done in one of these hundreds of letters to you. But these ideas are like books that I read and then set down, only to pick them up later and see a whole new side to them._

_I've digressed again, but my letters to you always seem to have me speaking in footnotes. Every idea spawns a new one, just as they did when we were together. I feel more alive when I talk to you this way than I do for all the rest of the day. How I miss you, my Ruth. I always will. How fervently I hope our paths cross again. I love you more in this minute than I ever have, and I have no illusions now that this feeling will ever leave me._

_But, back to Connie, as I'm determined to express to you how I feel tonight. She was in love too, with a man named Hugo, an officer I knew well. I accused her today of working against me, of betraying secrets, and of being a Russian mole. And my prescient friend Hugo imagined that this might happen, so before he died, he recorded a message to release her from the possibility of any further accusations._

_How did I feel when I heard his voice on that tape? The combination of hearing Hugo and seeing Connie's face made me feel I was of the lowest species on the planet. Connie was peacefully whiling away her days and nights in Norfolk before I pulled her out of retirement. I needed her, I've used her, and now, I've pointed a finger at her, and probably made her wonder why she ever agreed to come back._

_I feel it's all falling apart, my love. I'm unsure of everything that matters to me. Adam is dead. Zaf is dead. Ros, Connie and Lucas all have Russian connections that have made me suspicious. Jo is teetering on the edge of sanity. I speculate on my superiors' loyalty to me. Even Malcolm seems to carry a weariness around, and at times I wonder at how long he'll be with us._

_And on top of all this, still another old and dear friend has turned up as a possible traitor. So having just learnt my lesson with Connie, I'm being asked again to suspect someone I've known and trusted for years. Frankly, I'm at a loss to know what to do. I need you here with me to hold my head, to kiss my eyes in that way that makes me forget everything but the softness of your lips. _

_And that brings me to the most disorienting thought of all. It's been so long, my Ruth, that I can no longer feel what your heart is telling me. The fear has entered my mind that, even if I were to make that leap, to throw away my life here and come to you, your heart mightn't still belong to me. And that's a thought on which I cannot bear to dwell, so I push it from my mind, and replace it with a picture of you that persists beyond all others._

_It's the memory of you lazing on the grass in Bath. I was gazing at you. The setting sun was bright in your eyes, and one of your hands played with a blade of grass, whilst the other was warm in mine. One of your sandals was off, but the other dangled precariously from your toes as you closed your eyes to the sun. Time seemed to stop for us. It's when you said, "We could be any couple in the world, Harry. The banker and the shopgirl."_

_And I thought, "No, not any couple in the world, because no man could be happier than I am in this moment. No man could love a woman the way I love you." And although I thought of myself then as a seasoned, cynical, hard sort of man, I realise now that I was an innocent in a way, a believer in the dream. I felt that since we'd opened the doors to our hearts, they would never close again, that we'd always lie that way, completely in love, impervious to whatever the world saw fit to throw at us._

_I go back to that innocence tonight, and beg for it to take up residence in my heart again. I want to believe that we're meant to be together, no matter how things appear to be today. And although it all seems to be falling around my ears at present, or perhaps _because_ it is, I choose that spot of grass, and you, as my companions for the night._

_Goodnight my dearest love. My sweet Ruth. My heart is still yours. At the risk of again sounding uncharacteristically like an optimist, I choose to believe that yours is still mine._

_Harry_

* * *

Ruth laid her head back and closed her eyes against the sun. She drank in the sound of the children playing in the pool, the insistent chirp of the birds, and the music playing softly on the stereo. She'd managed to fill out their music library a bit from the meagre choices George had brought to the house. His taste ran to the Beatles from their _Revolver_ album onward, U2, Springsteen, Coldplay, Norah Jones, Bryan Adams, Sting, and Fiona Apple. Not bad choices, but not a classical CD in the lot, and thus, none of Ruth's favourite chorale music.

There was a new and used music store in Polis, and what she hadn't found, she'd been able to order. Now, playing behind the laughter of the children, she heard the strains of Vivaldi's _Gloria_. Her choir in London had sung it one year, and she knew every note. The warmth of the sun, the splash of the water, and the words all combined to give Ruth a moment of happiness, a time of forgetting.

She didn't realise she was singing along, until she heard Christina laugh. "Another piece of the puzzle. She speaks Latin."

Ruth's eyes flew open, and she was glad for the bright sunshine, as she was certain it covered the blush that flew to her cheeks. She put her hand up so that she could see Christina standing over her, a glass of fresh lemonade in her outstretched hand. Ruth sat up quickly and took it, smiling awkwardly at her friend. "I s-sang in a choir, in London," was all she said, faltering a bit.

Christina was used to these moments, when she got too close to Ruth's past, and she simply clucked and smiled back broadly. "Whatever you say." She shook her head, laughing, "I don't care if you sang on the moon, Ruth. My brother is so happy these days I think he might simply float away." Christina touched Ruth's hand. "You are the reason. I'm grateful."

Ruth smiled back, but then turned her head toward the children in the pool, changing the subject. "Nico is so happy when his cousins are here."

Christina paused for a moment, and then said softly, "You love him, don't you?"

Ruth's head turned back sharply, afraid that Christina was asking about George. Christina smiled, somewhat sadly, and tilted her head toward the pool, understanding. "No, that will take time, Ruth. I'm speaking of Nico. You love him."

Taking a deep breath and letting a soft smile play on her face, Ruth said, "Yes. I believe I do."

Christina took a sip of her lemonade, and looked slyly over the rim of the glass at Ruth. "It's a start."

Ruth laughed and shook her head. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Only because Panos tells me every day." Ruth laughed again, and they both watched the children for a time. Ruth had found a large inflatable shark and a dragon in the tourist shop in town. Nico and Galen were duelling, trying to pull each other off the plastic toys, then jumping back up, laughing and squealing. Magus was trying to play, but as usual, was getting the worst of it. Kineta floated peacefully on her tube, as far away from the action as possible, twirling in circles, and singing softly to herself.

Christina watched Ruth's eyes quietly as she gazed at the children. Finally, Ruth turned, and this time, Christina did see the blush that spread across her cheeks. Quickly, Ruth looked down at her lemonade and took another sip to cover her embarrassment. Christina was silent, but there was a devilish smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

Ruth smiled too, still looking down, and shook her head. "You don't have to say it." She looked up at Christina. "Yes, I think I would like to have a child." She gazed quickly back at the pool.

Christina spoke softly. "First things first. We need to get you married."

As the final strains of _Gloria_ rang through the house, Ruth sighed inwardly. This is what it always came down to. _Marriage_. How could she explain her feelings to Christina? Before Ruth could marry, she would have to sever her tie to the man she to whom she was already married.

Before she could give herself to another man, she would have to put that moment in the soft white sheets of the Hotel Britannique behind her, once and for all.

* * *

Ros thought Harry's eyes looked very tired this morning. He'd walked onto the Grid almost as if sleepwalking, and asked her, and then Lucas, to join him in his office. As she'd moved past him, just a few steps ahead of Lucas, she'd whispered to Harry, "Are you not sleeping?"

Harry had sighed and waved her to a chair. _A full three hours last night, and I'm grateful for that_.

Sitting behind his desk, Harry folded his hands in front of him. Once Lucas and Ros were seated, he began to speak. Without moving, without emotion, he relayed to them what he knew.

"Just under twenty years ago, as the Berlin Wall was collapsing, Richard Dolby, Hugo Prince and I conceived the most complex viral network of spies ever to infiltrate the Russian political system. We recruited young, pro-Western minds in all areas, with one aim. To ensure that in twenty years we would have moles at the very highest levels of Russian life. Moles who could limit or destroy the Russian nuclear threat. We have that capability, Operation Sugarhorse, which has remained entirely uncompromised."

Lucas leant forward in his chair. Now he understood. After eight long years of wondering why he had been tortured, why they had kept him alive, and what they had hoped to gain from him, he understood. "Till I told you that the Russians had interrogated me about it."

Harry nodded. "Yes. And I didn't know how the Russians knew about Sugarhorse until now." He paused for a moment while Lucas bowed his head, letting the comprehension sink in, and then Harry continued. "I'm waiting for some intel from a Sugarhorse asset in Moscow, and then I will expose the identity of the mole within MI5." At these words Harry looked from Lucas, to Ros, and back again. He was reading their eyes, trying to find any flash of recognition that might be there.

Harry continued. "A traitor, who has tried to sabotage a twenty-year British intelligence operation. When I expose the mole, all hell will break loose, both here and in Russia. I'll need both your support."

Without hesitating, Lucas said, "Whatever you need, Harry."

Ros' words came fast on the heels of Lucas'. "Anything at all."

Harry looked again from one to the other, still not moving. "Thank you. Thank you both."

Lucas and Ros stood, understanding that this briefing was over. Each was aware that it hadn't been conducted in the meeting room with the rest of the members of the team. No, this had been a private meeting, which could mean one of two things. Either it was private due to the sensitivity of the information being imparted, or it was information Harry meant only to give to his two primary suspects.

Each knew they had ties to Russia, and they knew that Harry would have to be certain the mole wasn't one of the senior officers on the Grid. He needed to know who he could trust. This knowledge didn't upset either of them. On the contrary, they acknowledged that they would have done the same thing in Harry's position.

An additional piece of information that didn't escape either Lucas or Ros was that there was another officer with ties to Russia who was not present for this meeting. In fact, Connie had yet to show up for work this morning. They left Harry's office with more questions than answers, but both had the same clear intention of proving their loyalty to him.

Harry waited until they'd left before he allowed the mask to retreat from his face. He hated mistrusting them, but it was procedure. A process of elimination. Connie had been cleared, and now he would keep a close eye on Ros and Lucas in the hope of clearing them as well. When he did, there would be two more in the inner circle that he could trust without reservation.

As soon as Lucas closed the door behind him, Harry pulled his mail from the side of his desk. He was looking for one particular envelope, and he soon found it. One with a Russian postmark, sent first to an asset in Reading, then forwarded to New Park Row, and subsequently forwarded to the Grid. The same path, or one like it, taken by every Sugarhorse asset wishing to make contact with him.

Harry opened the envelope and pulled out a postcard of da Vinci's _Madonna and Child_. He turned it over and read the message: _Dear James, Having a lovely time, visited the Hermitage Museum which was splendid. Weather is good. Look forward to seeing you. Love, Maureen X._ Taking his knife from the top drawer, he cut a line directly down the middle of the card, and carefully peeled back the layer of paper over the real message:

_SUGARHORSE COMPROMISED. HAVE INTEL. I AM COMING TO LONDON. K._

Harry let the full impact of those words sink in. If the operation was truly compromised, people would die. Some may have already. He thought of Maria first, but then of the countless others who had given most of their adult lives to the Sugarhorse operation. They were in the top levels of government now, including Britain's prize asset, Alexander Borkhovin, Russia's Foreign Minister.

"Compromised" could mean so many things, and Harry wondered if the operation could still be salvaged. At the beginning, they had split the list of Sugarhorse operatives into three, so that none of them had all the names. When Hugo died, his list was divided, and half was given to Richard Dolby, whilst the other half went to Harry. Neither had access to the other's list. Finding out how, and by whom, the operation had been compromised was now the driving force behind Harry's thoughts.

As soon as Asset K, or as Harry knew her, Katerina, arrived in London, he would have what he needed. The Hermitage Museum, coupled with the word "splendid" meant that she had a full dossier with photos of the person who had been passing information from MI5, but for her safety, even Katerina had no idea what was in the sealed file she carried.

Harry felt himself dreading the arrival of that dossier, at the same time he knew he would be grateful to have this over. Maybe then, he could get some sleep.

* * *

Isabelle missed Sophie deeply. Of course, she missed her conversation, her smile, and her laughter. But she also loved the way Sophie had taken hold of the shop and organised it, and the effortless way she'd worked with the computer and filled the orders. Every request had been like a treasure hunt to Sophie, an exciting challenge to be met.

And once Isabelle had accepted the help Sophie had given her, she found she was spoilt, and wasn't able to do without it. So she'd found a replacement for her, a sweet young woman named Alice. Isabelle very much appreciated the help, but it couldn't be the same. Alice was working her way through University, and although she loved books, there was no real connection there for Isabelle. And unfortunately, Alice had none of Sophie's organisational talents. As Isabelle looked around the back of the shop, she despaired of ever finding anything again.

Today, Alice was working in the front of the shop whilst Isabelle was catching up with some email correspondence. It had been a slow day, and Alice was dusting the shelves when the bell rang over the door. Isabelle heard a male voice, and then she heard the name "Sophie," which got her quietly up out of her chair.

Alice was talking to a gentleman who looked to be Indian, tall, well-dressed, with a cultured British accent. The other man was shorter, wider, dressed simply in a t-shirt, jeans and jacket, and he seemed to defer greatly to the tall man.

Alice spoke passable English, and was just replying. "Yes, there was a Sophie, before I came here..."

"How may I help you?" Isabelle stepped quickly from the back, inwardly chastising herself for neglecting to tell Alice never to reveal Sophie's name to a stranger. It simply hadn't occurred to Isabelle to do so.

Now the man turned, discarding Alice straight away with his eyes and his manner, once he determined that the older woman was the one who had the answers he sought. Isabelle felt immediately that this was a man who considered himself very charming.

"I'm looking for Sophie Persan," he said pleasantly. "She was a dear friend. I'm wondering if you might have her address."

Isabelle's mind raced, as she calculated how she could best help Sophie. It was clear that this was not a man to be trifled with, and he was looking at her with an intensity that showed not only his intelligence, but also a hint of the suspicion he felt at what she was about to say. Isabelle thanked God for her training with Pierre, and for all the times she was required to tell lies. She knew the closest to the truth was always the best, as the truth had a power behind it that was unmistakeable.

"She no longer works here," Isabelle said, keeping her eyes focused and steady on his. "She left here nearly a year ago." Isabelle smiled as sweetly as she could. "She told me of many of her dear friends. I wonder if I might have heard your name?"

His smile widened, appreciating the gambit. "Oh, I doubt it. It was a long time ago. But she did always say she wanted to travel." He tilted his head casually, as if he were thinking, "Let me guess, she's finally gone off to explore the Greek islands, as she always said she would."

Mani was working on a couple of hunches. Of course, he knew that Sophie was British, from her accent. So there were men in London, searching out how she might have been connected with Harry Pearce. The simple answer was that she had worked at MI5, but there were no records of a Sophie Persan anywhere. Obviously, it was a legend. But photos don't lie.

Harry's photo was simple to obtain, but Sophie's had been a bit harder. As it turned out, however, she had applied for a new driver's licence in Paris, and it hadn't taken long for a copy to find its way to Mani's hands. That photo, although typically unflattering, was not only being shown around London, but was also proving to be a great help at the hotel where the couple had been dropped off on Cyprus. A housemaid, and the driver who had taken Mr Arden and Ms Persan there, both still had memories of the man and the woman who had seemed so in love.

So the second prong of Mani's search was Cyprus. He was looking for some memory, some loose conversation with a local, that would tell him where she was now. His men were still asking questions at the Hotel Anassa, and then they would go into the closest towns, Polis and Paphos, and show Sophie's photo. Perhaps someone would remember her.

Now, Mani stood across from Isabelle, and waited for her answer. He would know if she was telling the truth, and her answer now would determine if she would find herself in the warehouse where Mani had interrogated the pilot, or if she would see him simply walk back out the door. Mani loved this moment. The moment that would decide this woman's life or death. The moment that she answered with truth, or with a lie.

Isabelle gazed at him, and said simply, "I have no idea where Sophie is," and Mani's spirits fell, because he knew it was the truth. It wouldn't matter how he tortured her. She didn't know.

Mani took a deep breath and released it. "I can see that." He turned to his companion, and gave a slight nod of his head. Turning back to Isabelle, he said, "I'm so very sorry to have taken your time."

Isabelle smiled, and said, "I wish I could have been of more help."

_Now she's lying_, Mani thought, returning her smile. _But still, she doesn't know_.

"Not to worry," he said, lightly, moving toward the door. "I'll find her. Shall I give her your best when I see her?"

"Yes, please do." Isabelle began to move toward the back of the store, her heart pounding.

By the time Mani had gone through the door, Isabelle was on her mobile to Guillaume. His voicemail picked up, and she left him a message: "Guigui, I need you to come again to show me how to get a message to my friend, Sophie. Please come as soon as you can, it's urgent. Please hurry."

And now, Isabelle cursed her lack of organisation. She stood in the middle of the room and tried to remember where in this mess she had put the card with James' phone number on it.

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE**

* * *

Harry's team was splitting its time and energy between two separate but related challenges: the emergency Peace Summit being held in London between the Palestinian and Israeli delegations, and the discovery and securing of a weapon that might threaten the Summit. Ros was on the Grid managing security for the peace talks, and Lucas was out in the field keeping the weapon in safe hands.

Whilst both of these missions were critical, Harry was managing still a third challenge, that of finding out who the mole in Section D was. It had become an even more delicate process since he'd learned that Bernard Qualtrough was Pilgrim, an FSB operative. Now, instead of seeking Bernard's help, Harry was working toward setting him up and bringing his network to light.

So Harry called Bernard and told him they needed to meet. He would continue to be the student, and allow Qualtrough to think he was still his mentor. And in order to make it a true experiment, he would tell no one but Connie of his plans. He would allow Bernard to hang himself. And it was breaking Harry's heart.

If Harry had been asked, just a day ago, who he trusted above all others, the first, of course, would have been Ruth. But close on her heels would have been Bernard Qualtrough. He would have named him his greatest teacher, but beyond that, Harry had idolised Bernard. He was a spy's spy, a man's man, the kind of brilliant, savvy, resourceful and erudite leader that Harry had always hoped to be. The question that now plagued Harry more than any other, was why? Why does someone like Bernard, who seemed to truly love Britain, turn against his country and work for the FSB?

And now, standing at a railing overlooking the Thames, Harry gazed at the decades-old photo of Qualtrough. He realised that the man he had known had never been working for Britain. In the same way that Harry had Sugarhorse assets working in Moscow for twenty years, Bernard had been working against the country of his birth for a very long time. Harry looked from the photo to the man himself in the distance. Bernard was unaware of Harry watching him, and Harry saw every year on the older man's face as Bernard leafed through the books at an outdoor sale.

Harry supposed Bernard's betrayal had its roots in some ideology or other. That he'd read the _Communist Manifesto_ as a young man and had been enthralled, or perhaps he'd found a mentor himself during his years stationed in Moscow, and had been turned by another's passion. Harry didn't know, and he was frankly tired of speculating. He would use all the "spycatcher" tricks that Qualtrough himself had taught him, and he would expose his old friend.

Sighing, Harry put the photo back in his jacket pocket. He was so tired. Not only from lack of sleep, but from a weariness born of feeling ineffectual, a need to understand what it was all for. So many twists and turns, Machiavellian plots and plans, time spent wondering who was friend and who was foe. It was exhausting, and although Harry kept his goal firmly in mind, he hoped that at the end of all this he could find time for a short holiday, some time away. And he couldn't stop his mind from drifting to Cyprus. He knew that in his exhaustion he was having dangerous thoughts, but he seemed unable to fight them off, so he was allowing himself the luxury of them.

But for today, he had a job to do. He looked once more into the distance at Bernard, and then he walked purposefully down the steps to the book sale. Reaching out, he took hold of Bernard's old and grizzled hand in his own. "Bernard," he said warmly, and he hoped it was without the tinge of deep sadness he felt creep into his heart.

"Harry. You said it was important. What's happened?" Bernard released Harry's hand and moved along the table of books in the cool of the breeze off the Thames.

"An asset is arriving from Moscow today. Asset K. Bringing a dossier that will contain intel on the Sugarhorse mole." Harry searched Bernard's face for any movement that might betray him, but saw none. Qualtrough was a consummate old spy, and Harry really hadn't expected any less.

"When's Asset K arriving?" Bernard looked as unconcerned as could be. He thumbed indifferently through a used copy of _A Nurse's War_ as he spoke. Harry copied his air, speaking offhandedly.

"Three o'clock this afternoon," Harry said.

"Uh-huh. And you've no idea what intel they might reveal?" Bernard casually put down the book, not meeting Harry's eyes.

Now Harry was seeing a new side to Bernard's studied indifference. Every question he was asking Harry had a purpose, but Harry would give him nothing. "They're breaking twenty years' silence. I trust it's more than a weather forecast."

"Hmmm. You're hoping they'll tell you who the Sugarhorse mole is?"

_Yes, Bernard, the one with whom you've been working_. Harry took a deep breath to relax the anger that was building in him. And then he tried to lead Qualtrough into complacency. "Or confirm what we both suspect."

Now Bernard looked directly at Harry. "Connie James." Harry glanced away, as if in some despair, and Bernard continued. "I'm sorry, Harry. I know how hard this is for you."

Turning to him, Harry gazed at Bernard from under his brows. _You have no idea how hard this is for me, Bernard. I'm watching you as you begin walking your path to prison, where it's likely you will die of old age. Yes, this is very hard for me._

And now, the question Harry had expected, asked nonchalantly by Bernard, "Nobody else in your team has any idea about this, Harry?"

Harry looked directly at Bernard and gave him the final piece of information he needed, "Only you and I are aware of the existence of Asset K."

"Let's keep it that way. I assume you'll go yourself?"

Harry smiled. "After twenty years' waiting, I'm not anxious to delegate."

Bernard wished him good luck, and touched his arm before he walked away. For a moment, Harry stood, feeling the vague, irrational guilt that suddenly took hold of him at the prospect of offering up a man of Bernard's age to the interrogation machine of the Security Services. And then he quickly let go of the guilt, as the names and the faces of his Sugarhorse assets began to flood into his mind.

Turning toward the river, he let the light wind off the water cool his face, and then he turned and started back toward Thames House.

* * *

Guillaume heard the urgency in his mother's voice when he listened to her message, and came quickly, as she had asked. He asked her a few questions that produced no answers, and then gave her warnings about having gotten in over her head. But finally he relented, and moved the email she had written on to the server. He clearly didn't like it, but he did it. Again he extracted a promise for that glass of wine, and the full story.

Isabelle's email was simple, to the point, and written in French.

_My dear,_

_J'espère que ce courrier te parviendra. Un homme très grand, Indien je pense, était ici aujourd'hui et a posé des questions à propos de S.P. Je lui ai dit la vérité – que tu es partie il y a un an de cela et que je ne sais pas où tu es. __Fais attention à toi. J'espère toujours te revoir un jour. With love,_

_I.F._

_[I hope this reaches you. __A very tall man, Indian I believe, was here asking for S.P. today.__ I told the truth -- that you left a year ago and I do not know where you are. Be safe. I still pray to see you again.]_

Isabelle sighed and visibly relaxed when Guillaume was finished. He could see how emotional his mother was, and his heart softened. "Do you think she'll get it?" he asked gently.

She took his hand and squeezed it. "Oh, I hope so."

* * *

George had been silent throughout dinner. Ruth caught him staring at her a couple of times, his eyes disconcertingly steely right before they softened again. It was as if he was holding back some terrible force by sheer strength of will, and then he would master it, and the man she knew was back, sitting beside her.

They had been in the new house for three weeks, and Ruth had seen George changing by small increments. Though she was beginning to fear that he wasn't so much changing, as he was allowing his true nature to emerge. He was still a very good and kind man, still very loving and gentle, but there was a darkness, an undercurrent of anger that she'd never seen before.

It was as if he'd been able to hold that part of him at bay until he reached his goal of this house, and Ruth in it. She understood that part of relationships well, as Ruth had often tried to be the person a prospective love wanted her to be. It was impossible for her to keep up and always seemed to break down at a certain point, so she'd finally determined simply to be herself at all stages of a relationship and let the chips fall where they may.

Living with George had been more of a shock to Ruth than she'd thought it would be, considering the many hours they'd spent together. Ruth had never lived with a man before, and she was finding the adjustment difficult. Back when she was still at GCHQ, she'd spent whole weekends at Jonathan's, but she still remembered the palpable feeling of relief when Sunday night came round. She would let herself back into her flat, say hello to her roommate, and make her way to her own bedroom, and privacy. Now Ruth's bedroom was also George's bedroom, and there was no privacy.

And then, as always, there were her memories of Harry. Ruth tried not to think of her last weekend at Harry's, because she felt she could have stayed there forever without ever feeling claustrophobic. They had shared a house smaller than this one with an ease that had made her feel they'd been together forever. She'd never wanted to leave that house, or Harry, but here, with George, it was different.

The mountain house was big, but once George came home from the hospital at the end of the day, he seemed always to be near her. There was a tension between them, an awkwardness, and it had begun to wear on Ruth, and she suspected, also on George. It was as if he was following her, willing her to make up her mind.

Ruth found that she was again pouring an extra glass of wine at dinner, and George was as well. It seemed to take the edge off, to remove them a bit from their thoughts. Some days she even had a quick glass before he got home from the hospital, to prepare herself for whatever mood he was in.

They still had wonderful times, too. They laughed, and played, and teased each other as they always had. Their friendship was a solid one, and when her _friend_ George was present, Ruth felt everything would be fine. The awkwardness, the discomfort, came from the part of George that wanted Ruth to commit to him, to choose today over yesterday, to decide.

Of course, Nico felt it, too. Some dinners were great fun, as they talked about parts of the island they wanted to visit, days at the beach, which of Nico's friends could come and swim after school. But other nights, like this one, were so quiet that Nico seemed even to prefer the idea of homework to the strain he felt at the dinner table.

Nico scraped the last of the marinara sauce from his dish with the last piece of penne, and jammed it in his mouth. Still chewing, he picked up his empty plate, and started toward the kitchen. "Thank you for dinner, Ruth."

"You're welcome," Ruth said, smiling at him. "I'm glad you like pasta."

Nico spoke in the direct, effortless way of children, looking at his father, "It's much better than my Dad's." Then he looked back at Ruth, "And almost as good as Aunt Christina's."

Ruth laughed, her eyes sparkling with the compliment. "Well, I'll take that as high praise, then," she said. "You're off to do homework?"

Stopping in the hall, Nico raised his eyebrows, and said, "Will you help me? I have to write a story."

"You get it started, and I'll be up in a little while," she said. Both Ruth and George watched him go with identical looks in their eyes. When he was out of sight, their eyes met, and they smiled.

"You're very good with him," George said, softly. "I can tell you care for him, Ruth. He cares for you, too." Looking down, he said, "He's needed a mother." Suddenly, before Ruth could respond, George reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. He placed it on the table between them without a word, and simply kept his eyes on hers.

Ruth looked at the box, unable for a time to look up, as her breath began to come faster, and she felt the colour rush into her cheeks. She'd known, somehow, that this was coming. She'd been dreading it, because she knew she couldn't say yes. Not yet. To cover her inability to speak and to bolster her courage, Ruth picked up her glass, and took another swallow of her wine.

Finally, George spoke again. "Nico needs a mother. And I need a wife, Ruth." He took her hand from the stem of the wine glass. "I love you. Will you marry me?"

Ruth looked up at him, and her breath caught. She thought again about what a good man he was. Despite his recent mood swings, he'd only raised his voice to her once, on Christina's patio that night, but Ruth had a feeling her answer now would tap into that same deep well of anger. And she acknowledged, with some inward guilt, that she was the reason for those emotions in him, that they were born of frustration, of not understanding, of utter incomprehension at what was stopping her from accepting the life he offered.

"George. You know how much I care for you, and for Nico ..."

He cut her off, sharply, with some impatience. "Yes or no, Ruth?"

She put her other hand on his. "Not now. That's all I can say. Not now."

George retrieved his hand and brought it up to rub his eyes, as his voice went lower. "Not ever."

Now her voice was sharp. "That's not what I said." Ruth didn't want to have this conversation right now. In truth, she was wishing that George could simply wait until she brought it up, until she was ready. But that sounded so selfish to her that she worked to soften it. "Just not now."

She heard the edge start in his voice. "Ruth, I go to work every day and hear the same question. When is the wedding? I look at Nico, and I think, he deserves to have the security of a mother." Ruth didn't answer, and now George's voice rose. "I don't know what else you expect of me. Can you give me a time? A month? A year? Ten years?"

"No!" Ruth stood and started to pick up her plate, but George snatched it away, and motioned for her to sit down again. She dropped back into her chair, sighing, her voice resigned. "I want to want it. Can't you believe that?"

George waited, his eyes fiery and fixed on her, asking for an explanation.

"I know what you're offering is something fantastic, and I wish I could say yes ..." Ruth paused. She shook her head lightly, looking down at her lap, and her voice became gentle. "Every woman dreams of that. A beautiful wedding in a beautiful place ... on the beach ..." _Oh, Harry, where did this all go so wrong?_

As her voice trailed off, George took her hand again, and now he spoke softly, "At the vineyard house, in the clearing, where the breeze comes through in the afternoon. Under an archway, covered with grapevines. A semicircle of white chairs, just up against the rows."

Ruth turned to him, amazed at the detail he was describing. _He's thought about this so much_. Her heart went out to him, and she felt a need to be kind. She laughed softly, sadly. "Your whole family won't fit in there, George. Who wouldn't we invite? You'd cause a riot of gossip."

He moved closer to her. "I don't care. That's where I want it. They can stand in the rows if they have to." George leant in and kissed her, first on the cheek, and then on her lips. She didn't pull back, and he pressed further. "Marry me, Ruth. I love you so much. Marry me."

Ruth was pleading with her eyes for him to stop asking, "George..." He didn't see her shake her head, because he was opening the box, taking the ring out, and slipping it on her finger. It was a lovely diamond solitare, gleaming and bright, and it fit perfectly.

He bent down to kiss it. "Just for tonight. For me. Wear it for tonight."

For a moment, she almost did. But the vision of Harry's smile as he placed the ring of charms on her finger intruded too completely. With inexpressible sadness in her eyes, Ruth reached her other hand down and removed the diamond solitaire. She placed it on the table, saying simply, "I can't. I'm so sorry." In the silence of George's visible anger, she stood and walked upstairs to help Nico with his homework.

After saying goodnight to Nico, Ruth went down for a quick swim and another glass of wine by the pool. By the time she came upstairs, George was asleep, turned as far away from her as possible. She got quietly into bed and lay with her back to him, not touching, and in the deepest recesses of Ruth's heart, she was grateful for the solitude.

* * *

"_Every part of the peace process is slow and painstaking. But I believe tomorrow we will see the beginning of consensus, because the vast majority of Israelis and Palestinians want it to happen_..."

Harry was so immersed in Sugarhorse that he had left the responsibility of the Emergency Summit largely in Ros' capable hands, but he did try to catch up in the evenings. He was listening to the United Nations Special Negotiator speak about the Summit, when Connie came to his door. He'd told her earlier in the day that he had an assignment for her, and this was the first chance they'd had to talk.

"What's going on?" Connie asked, still standing just inside Harry's office.

Harry switched off the BBC feed, and turned to her. "Close the door."

Connie closed it, and walked slowly to the edge of Harry's desk, as he continued. "A Russian sleeper asset is coming to London to meet me, bringing vital intel on an MI5 mole."

"How long has he been asleep?"

"It's a she. She's been asleep for twenty years, a Sugarhorse asset. She's arriving in two hours as a part of the Russian media delegation for the summit. We need to meet unobserved, and the FSB are all over me."

Of course, Harry didn't tell Connie that the FSB he was talking about was Bernard Qualtrough. He knew Bernard would have him followed to the meeting with Asset K, and Harry wanted to keep Katerina safe.

Harry sent Connie off with her assignment, that of coming up with a second person, another member of the media delegation, to be their fall guy. The next day, Connie found just the right person. Dmitri Volyakov, a man with a criminal history who was laundering cash for the Russian Mafia.

So Harry met with the fall guy, leading Qualtrough to believe Volyakov was Asset K -- Bernard would have Volyakov eliminated, and another criminal would meet an untimely end. Connie met with the real Asset K, got the intel on the Section D mole, and was on her way to bring it back to Harry at the office.

Thanks to Connie's excellent work, everything went off without a hitch. Harry sat in his office waiting for her return, and was very grateful to have her in his corner. Again, he felt the pang of regret for having accused her, but once he had the intel in his hands, he would know who the mole was, and they could get on with their work.

But with that knowledge would come another, stronger pang of betrayal, because the mole would be someone from the Grid. Although Ros had turned once before, Harry knew that she'd changed since her return, and he couldn't really believe her passion lay with Russia. When Lucas had first come back from his time in prison, Harry had wondered about his loyalties, but since that time, Lucas had proven himself multiple times. Jo or Malcolm? Ben? Not possible. None of them seemed to fit in Harry's mind.

He had to believe that it was an analyst or a technician, somebody he didn't know well, who had found a way to the most sensitive documents on the Grid. Whoever it was, the punishment would be swift and irrevocable. Again,he ran the memorised names of his Sugarhorse assets through his mind, and he clung to his hope that they were safe.

Harry looked up, and Connie stood at his door, holding a magazine with a sealed file folder inside of it. She placed it on his desk with a sly smile, as Harry smiled back at her. "Just like the old days, wasn't it, Connie? Just the two of us, and we had them running in circles."

Connie raised her eyebrows. "Just like the old days, Harry."

"That should keep the FSB happy." He picked up the magazine and said genuinely, "Thanks for this, Connie." He glanced up at her, and saw the self-satisfied look that comes with a successful operation, and he understood, because he felt it, too.

And this operation had been entirely successful, after a string of disappointments for Harry. He found himself feeling better, more sure of himself, and he was also glad for Connie, that she'd had some of the fun of a field agent after having been stuck on the Grid for so long. He told himself he would use her more often in the field. Her years of experience could be very valuable to him, and he'd been underutilising her.

For a moment, he thought of asking her to have a seat, to share another glass of the Ardbeg with him, in celebration. But he was waiting to open the file until Connie had left his office so that he could ponder the ramifications of the betrayal alone. He placed the magazine in his file drawer for safekeeping as Connie turned toward the hallway.

There was one more thing he had to say to her, so Harry called after her, "By the way. " Connie turned and walked back to his desk. Harry opened his heart and did something he only did on rare occasions. He apologised. "I'm sorry I doubted you." He really meant it, and he wanted Connie to know that. He hoped that she would be able to trust him again someday.

Connie returned his gaze, without smiling. "It's forgotten." Harry sincerely hoped so.

* * *

Ruth had tossed and turned, trying to sleep, and she was afraid she might wake George. Finally, she simply gave up the fight and got out of bed. She pulled her robe around her and walked downstairs to the office. She knew she had checked the server only three days ago, but decided to log on again. Although she'd tried to stop looking for emails, she couldn't seem to. It still comforted her somehow, and reminded her of the thread that reached to Harry.

Ruth had tried to put into words in her mind how she felt about her life on the Grid. At times it was like a wonderful fantasy, a time of excitement and intrigue, and the operations that had made her think _Goody, more spying_. But it had all gone horribly wrong from the moment Mik Maudsley had been pushed onto the tracks that rainy morning at the tube.

Ruth now thought ruefully that the girl who had said _goody_ was, in fact, naive. She realised that Harry had already been through these fires, and had come out the other side in a way that she hadn't. And it was clear to Ruth now that although he hadn't said she was naive, he had probably thought deep down, and quite correctly, that she was. Ruth turned on the computer, and as she did so, she waited for an intense longing for Harry to pass. It moved through her in the way she supposed labour pains did, and then she began to breathe again.

Now, when she thought of MI5, what sprung to Ruth's mind was the memory of the sheer exhaustion of wanting to get back to England, the desperation of missing Harry and stealing moments with him, and finally, the terror of Juliet, Yalta, and the Redbacks. It reminded her of the fear of imminent death, or perhaps, worse yet, ongoing torture.

It had all blended into a sort of bad dream, the type from which you can't wait to wake. Although she still missed Harry with an ache that seemed to reside permanently in her chest, Ruth didn't miss the bad dream. In fact, she felt she had left that part of her life entirely behind. She was still able to separate out the thrill of spying from the dangers it carried with it, and she could say honestly that she missed the thrill. But the two had been manifestly entwined in her experience, and she would gladly do without one, in order to escape the other.

The computer screen sprang to life, and Ruth began the process of accessing the _l'Alcove_ server. With a sharp intake of breath, Ruth saw that there was a message in the drafts folder.

* * *

The Emergency Summit was on track, and the weapon had been recovered. Unfortunately, a life had also been lost, a teenager who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the death had hit Lucas and Ros especially hard. Harry sent them home with orders to rest and let work go for the night.

Since the moment Harry had placed the file from Asset K in his drawer, he'd been pulled from one direction to the next, but now it was late, and he decided the most secure way to view the file would be in the safety of his own house. People had been coming to his office door all day, and now Harry wanted to pour a scotch, put on some music, and finally uncover the truth about the ultimate betrayal whilst sitting in the most comfortable chair he owned. He was exhausted.

Harry quickly fed Scarlet, Fidget, and Phoebe and walked upstairs, taking the file with him. He hung up his coat in the wardrobe, but didn't bother changing or even removing his tie before going into the study. Mozart's _Requiem_ was still in the CD player, and Harry thought a requiem mass was perfectly suited to the news he was about to receive. He chose his favourite section of the _Requiem_, entered the number and started the music. Harry poured a scotch and sat, finally opening the file, anticipating the picture of the traitor.

The music began with the plaintive soprano voices, but it soon became more strident, and suddenly, the voices of the chorus rose together, and with it, the speed of Harry's heart. Not from the strength of the music this time, but from the sight of himself. Photo after photo of meetings with Kachimov, talking on his mobile, pictures from years ago when he was in Moscow setting up Sugarhorse.

The voices climbed the scales of Mozart's masterpiece, and as they reached the top and held there, Harry knew that he had been set up. There, next to his official Security Services photo were the words, HARRY PEARCE. STATUS: MI5/FSB DOUBLE AGENT. RECRUITED: 1989.

Harry had seen Katerina with his own eyes, and he trusted her completely. The only other person who had touched this file was Connie James.

With a sinking heart, Harry had no choice but to assume two things. That Katerina was dead. And that Connie was the mole.


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR**

* * *

Harry still sat in his most comfortable chair, but he was now running on adrenaline, the tiredness gone. He calculated that he had, at most, a half hour of freedom, and that this might be one of the most important half hours of his life. He still held the file in his hands, and although his body was motionless, his mind was racing. He reached out for the remote and the _Requiem_ suddenly ceased to fill the room. Harry needed the quiet to think about what he was going to do.

He was experiencing the "fight or flee" response, and he knew he had to make a decision. One half of him could clearly visualise standing up, going to the heart-shaped box on Ruth's side of the bed, and retrieving her necklace and promise ring. He saw himself change into a button-down shirt and jeans, imagined stowing the girls quickly into his car and driving to St Pancras, where he had a locker with William Arden's papers, an untraceable mobile phone, a large sum of cash, and a sidearm.

Right after Harry had received the postcard from Katerina, he'd followed the instinct to get the locker at the St Pancras Station. His senses had given him that slight but very familiar prickle that had moved down the back of his neck. It came from the times he'd been stranded, alone, with no money and few options, when he'd stood in only the clothes on his back, with no mobile, no papers, no way to run. When that had happened early in his career, he'd thought how easy it would have been to simply put things aside for an emergency, in a place that required no key but only a combination that he kept in his memory.

He always had emergency supplies available to him at his Sunstrike safe house as well, but Connie had full knowledge of that building's location. No, St Pancras was his best option. From there, he could board the Eurostar to Paris, and then, somehow, he would fly to Cyprus. He would find Ruth, and they would disappear into oblivion. Harry looked down at the file in his hands and tried to decipher if it was a sign. Ruth might say it was, and for a fleeting moment, Harry wanted very much to believe that going to Cyprus was what he was meant to do.

But then the other half of Harry Pearce intruded, the one with a responsibility to Britain and to his MI5 assets in Moscow. Harry held so many names in his head, the names of Sugarhorse assets who had given the last nineteen years of their lives to a cause in which they believed. He held them gently in his hands, and ultimately, he couldn't be selfish.

So he sat forward in his chair, and wrestled his "flee" response into submission. He determined to stay and fight. He was certain that Connie and Bernard had put copies of the faked dossier into the hands of others by now. Dolby was the most likely possibility, and from there, it would make its way up the hierarchy. It was a thorough hatchet job, and although his superiors wouldn't want to believe it at first, ultimately the evidence would convince them. Harry knew that CO-19 would be here soon, and he had a very clear idea of where he would be taken, so he had to act quickly. The first thing to do was to call Lucas.

Whilst Lucas was on the run with Dean Mitchell, Harry had taken another precaution and let himself into Lucas' flat to hide an envelope in his bedside table. He'd trusted Lucas years ago, and he instinctively trusted him now. Harry had known he would need an ally in the field at some point, although he hadn't thought it would be this soon.

And, being a great believer in back up plans, Harry had done one more thing after receiving the postcard from Katerina. He'd sent a return postcard through the same winding path to Maria Korachevsky in Moscow, instructing her to hide a duplicate of the dossier she had sent with Asset K. In code, he'd used the name Gorky, which told her that if something went amiss, he would come personally to pick up the file. That wouldn't be possible now, but he could send Lucas.

Harry looked at his watch. Half past midnight. The last time Harry had seen him, Lucas was exhausted and devastated by Dean Mitchell's death. He would be home in bed, because Harry had ordered him to go there.

Harry picked up his mobile and dialled. As it rang, he stood and walked to the windows, looking out. No activity, but he knew that would soon change. He heard the phone pick up. "Lucas."

Lucas' voice was rough with sleep. "Harry."

"Look in your bedside drawer."

Lucas heard the urgency in Harry's voice, and leant over to pull out the drawer. Feeling around, he found a large manila envelope taped to the underside of the bed table. He pulled it out, as Harry continued. "I'm being set up. We've got a mole in Section D. I need you to meet a contact in Moscow. Maria Korachevsky."

"I'm sorry Lucas." Harry was pacing now, to the window, and back toward the centre of the room. He knew that ordering Lucas to go back to Russia so soon was like asking him to revisit a nightmare, but he had no other options at present. "By the time you get there, she'll have all the information we need to pinpoint the mole."

Lucas didn't hesitate. "I'm on my way." Harry felt a rush of gratitude, and exhaled softly. Then he remembered what else was in the envelope. Maria's ring, the blue stone set in silver that she'd placed in his pocket as they'd said goodbye. Harry could still hear her words, "Please come back to me." He wasn't returning to Maria, and again he was putting her in danger, but it couldn't be helped.

The least Harry could do was get a message to her. "One more thing," he said to Lucas, "When you see Maria, tell her I'm sorry it took this for me to get in touch. " Lucas could clearly hear the emotion in Harry's voice. "She'll understand."

"And the ring?" Lucas asked.

Harry's voice grew softer. "It'll prove to her that you've come on my behalf." He paused, then continued, "Obviously, the plane ticket is for her to get back to London. She must leave Moscow and come here as soon as possible. Do your best to keep her from danger, but your priority must be the package that exposes the mole. Maria's a formidable woman. She will care for herself."

Harry paused, weighing whether or not to share his suspicions with Lucas. Finally, he thought about what he was asking Lucas to do, and Harry knew he had to trust him completely. "And Lucas?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Since I've been set up, I've a feeling I'll be unavailable. If you need the assistance of the Grid, trust only Ros or Malcolm. Under no circumstances are you to share any of this with Connie, nor should you let her know where you are."

Lucas was quiet for a moment, and then said, "Connie."

Harry could hear that Lucas was putting the pieces together. "Yes, Connie. But we must have proof."

"You can count on me, Harry."

"Thanks, Lucas. Be careful." Harry clicked off his mobile. He barely had time to sit back in his chair and begin to collect his thoughts, when his phone rang. At first he thought it might be Lucas with a question, but the name on his screen was BLAKE.

Harry sat forward again, pressing the button on his mobile. "Yes."

The Home Secretary's voice was tinged with concern, but not with blame or suspicion. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. At least Nicholas Blake had yet to see the faked dossier.

"Sorry for the late night call, Harry, but I need to brief you on something that can't wait till morning. Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"Good. Have you heard of a Polish village called Wylolszawa? It's five miles from the old Soviet border, and the Americans have decided it's the perfect spot for their missile defence shield. When the news breaks they'll go ballistic. Literally, for all we know. We have no choice. I've just seen the latest U.S. intelligence on the Syrian nuclear weapons program. The missile defence shield could be the only thing between us and an airborne strike. "

Harry could feel where this was going, but he truly had no idea if Nicholas Blake had been briefed on Sugarhorse by the DG. He was saved any further speculation by the Home Secretary himself. "If the situation escalates, I need to know your assets are in place, and that none of your Russian networks have been compromised. I need to know that you still have Sugarhorse."

At first, Harry couldn't answer. Was this a test? Did Blake, in fact, know about the dossier, and was this simply a way to get Harry to tip his hand? In the face of Harry's silence, Blake asked the question again. "Is Sugarhorse secure?"

Harry found his voice. "I can assure you ... I can assure you our position is just as strong as it ever was." He spoke with a conviction he didn't entirely feel, but even if Connie and Bernard had found a way to trick Richard Dolby out of the names of his assets, Harry would never reveal his own. That meant that there were at least fifty Sugarhorse agents still working for Britain, and Harry was determined it would stay that way.

"Thank you, Harry." There was a gratitude, an openness in the Home Secretary's voice as he rang off. Harry placed his mobile on the table next to him. Blake's information about the new American base had given Harry the final piece of the puzzle. Now he understood why the Sugarhorse operation was in the sights of the FSB. This was what had brought Connie and Qualtrough out of their deep cover. They'd been tasked to dismantle Sugarhorse before the American base was built.

Harry looked at his watch, and saw that fifteen minutes had passed. He had very little time. He'd done everything he could do, so he let go of the details, and he put his trust in Lucas to bring the evidence he needed. He reached for his glass and took a long swallow, knowing it might be his last for awhile. The work he had to do now, before they came, would require music, but no _Requiem_ this time. Harry wanted the power and inspiration of the _Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves_, the music he had listened to on that last weekend with Ruth, with her head on his lap as she stroked Fidget, her eyes closed.

Tonight, the music took on added significance. Those singing were slaves, in bondage, but not beaten. They sang to be inspired, to endure their suffering, and their thoughts drifted to their "country, so lovely and lost." For a moment, Harry let the music wash over him, and it gave him strength.

Putting down his glass, he leant back in the leather chair. There was only one thing more that Harry had to do, and it was to steel himself against what was to come. He knew they were coming to arrest him, and he knew where he'd be taken. Harry also knew that the questioning of the Head of Section D would require the best, and the best was Charles Grady.

His interrogation would involve truth serum, a psychoactive medication, _scopolamine_, _temazepam_ or perhaps _sodium thiopental_. Harry had seen each of them used a number of times. Charles had a way of combining them, and then gazing at his subject with a face that could come only from a child's nightmare. Grady created a world so frightening that Harry had seen even the most hardened of double agents broken.

Harry's advantage was that he knew the process, and could go through it now, step-by-step, to prepare himself. He would ingrain the magnificent music of Verdi's _Nabucco_ in his memory, and then, later, when he had no strength of his own left, he would draw on the strength of the music. Harry listened to the voices of the Chorus as they rose and fell, and he formed the notes in front of his eyes. He breathed them in, storing them, making them a part of him.

The first questioning would happen without the drugs, in a reasonable and rational fashion, giving Harry the chance to voluntarily break before any hard interrogation. Of course, that seldom worked, but it set the scene for what was to come.

Then the injection of the drugs, and the real test would begin. Family history first, personal failures, weaknesses, disappointments and shortcomings, in marriage, or with children. Grady would have Harry's entire psychological assessment, and Harry knew there was plenty there to draw from. Harry would hold out through that assault, and then would come the professional attack, suspicions of his team, lack of cohesiveness and loyalty, a steady stripping down of defences, of distinction, of dignity.

Harry knew that at some point, the Sugarhorse names wouldn't seem to matter to him anymore, and he knew that was the most dangerous phase of the interrogation. Charles Grady's goal would be to target Harry's feeling of disconnection and disorientation, to ask him who his contacts were, who his assets were, how he had betrayed his country.

Harry had been interrogated before, and he felt he had the strength to withstand the questioning about his Sugarhorse assets. But now, as he sat waiting, listening to the strains of Verdi's chorus, Harry was harbouring a worry about something entirely different, about _someone_ he held in his heart.

He was thinking about Ruth.

She was his greatest secret. Harry was terrified that he might say something about Ruth. He knew that when he was under stress, _in extremis_, Ruth filled his mind. She was his comfort, his balm, his loveliest memory, and she often came unbidden, unwished for. He knew that as he sat in that interrogation room, his mind addled with drugs, she would come into his thoughts to offer him reassurance.

Harry focused his eyes on the empty space in front of him, listening. To the music, for it's strength. To the walls and ceiling, for his approaching captors. And to his heart, for Ruth. He begged her to stay away, implored her to leave him alone, just for the time it took to set this all to rights. Her presence would soften him, bring him regret and longing, open his heart. Harry thought he mightn't be able to bear those feelings under the influence of Charles Grady's chemicals. And if Grady saw his weakness for even a moment, he would lunge for it.

As the time ticked by, Harry felt a panic begin to rise in his chest. What if Lucas was unable to get the evidence he needed? If Lucas was unsuccessful, Harry would need to enlist help from elsewhere, and his next choice would be Ros. Harry puzzled for a moment about when and where Connie could have been turned, and how he could lead Ros to discover it.

And suddenly, it hit him. _Renaissance_. But before the thought had fully formed to pick up his mobile and call Ros, a movement caught Harry's eye, and he knew it was too late. Either Lucas would have to come through, or Harry would need to find a way to get a message to Ros later. He looked up to the ceiling. The lamp there was swaying, gently, as if it was caught in just a whisper of a breeze. Through the floor, Harry felt a slight rumble vibrate into his feet, and then, finally, he heard the rustle of the air as the helicopter blades moved through it.

_They're coming_. He consciously relaxed his grip on the arm of the chair, and tried to submerge the fear that rose in his throat. Every cell in his body was calling out for him to stand, to run, but he sat, breathing, waiting.

Then the blue flash, as Verdi's slave voices moved toward crescendo, the score pulsing beneath the shift that was about to take place in Harry's world. The study lights flickered and failed, and now there was only the blue light from the windows, and the sudden shadows of the men beyond. Harry flinched against the simultaneous shower of glass, as both windows shattered with the power of the men rushing though them. As he was pulled to his knees, Harry raised his hands in submission before they were immobilised behind his back.

Then the hood. And then darkness. And as the music scratched and stopped, Harry hoped he had absorbed enough strength from it to get him through this night and whatever lay beyond it.

* * *

Ruth clicked, and the email opened. Not from Harry, or even Malcolm, as she had expected. It was from Isabelle.

_I hope this reaches you. __A very tall man, Indian I believe, was here asking for S.P. today.__ I told the truth -- that you left a year ago and I do not know where you are. Be safe. I still pray to see you again._

And just like that, it all came flooding back to her. In only five simple sentences. In their wake came the fear, the helplessness, and the cornered, trapped feeling. Frantically, Ruth worked at calming her heart and her breathing, but she couldn't stop her mind. She suspected it wasn't the Redbacks again, nor Yalta, but someone new, different. A fresh adversary, but who?

_A very tall man, Indian I believe_... Ruth read the sentence again, and a chord was suddenly struck in her. She closed her eyes, and she was back at the dinner table in Baghdad. She saw the lascivious look around Amish Mani's mouth as he asked her about her relationship with Harry. Ruth's frown deepened and she pushed the memory away.

Opening her eyes again, Ruth looked around her at the dark of the house, now gone so quiet with George and Nico asleep. She heard the soft whisk of palm leaves sweeping the outside walls in the breeze, and suddenly, a sound that had seemed so normal, almost comforting just minutes ago, became ominous. It had seemed as if no one in the world knew she was here, but now the peace and security she'd been feeling on Cyprus began to falter. Ruth took a deep breath and again tried to calm herself. _They still don't know where I am_, she thought. _It's a long way from Paris to Polis._

But then, Ruth wondered miserably whether anyone really leaves the Services, as she remembered putting her carry-all on the highest shelf in the closet when she'd moved into this house. In essence, it was still packed, just as it had been when she'd gone to Bath with Harry, and as it had been when Adam had brought it to her from her flat on the Rue du Banquier. Not with the same things, certainly, but packed in the same way. For a week-end, or for an emergency.

And it still held Harry's shirt with the sandalwood soap tucked neatly inside. Ruth had been afraid that George would discover a man's shirt in her drawer, and she couldn't stand the look she knew he would give her. She'd managed to convince herself that it was out of care and concern for George that she'd hidden it away. But she was aware enough to know that the best care and concern she could show would be to discard it. She couldn't bring herself to do that, so she hid it.

Their passports were in the top drawer in the bedroom, easily found. She kept the car keys in the sunshade on the driver's side so she never had to look for them. She told herself these were just commonsense ways to be organised, but she knew they came from her training. She was ready on a moment's notice to escape, and really had been, no matter where she'd lived, from the moment she'd left England. Ruth put her head in her hands and sighed. George had no idea who she was, really.

Ruth read the email over again, and found herself wishing Isabelle had been just a bit more specific. And then she realised that perhaps this was all the information Isabelle had. Now that her heart had calmed a bit, Ruth had to admit that it wasn't that much, and in fact, it wasn't a lot to be afraid of. If Amish Mani was looking for Sophie Persan, it had to do with the uranium, and if that was the case, Harry would be a much easier person to find. Ruth knew only that the uranium was hidden in Norfolk, but so did both Harry and Libby McCall. Mani wouldn't have to come all the way to Cyprus to get that information.

But that meant Harry was in danger, and now Ruth had a dilemma -- to write to Malcolm with this knowledge, or not? Suddenly, Ruth felt bone-tired, and looked at the clock on her laptop. 2:40 in the morning. As it always did, her mind calculated London time. 12:40 a.m. Where was Harry? What was he doing? Sleeping, she supposed, as she should be. Ruth copied the email over to her computer and closed her laptop. _This can wait until I'm more coherent_, she thought. The last thing she wanted to do was to send a hasty and reactive message to Harry.

She would let him have one more night of peace.

* * *

"_There were angry scenes in Moscow this morning as Russian leaders reacted to the announcement of U.S. plans to place missile defence bases in eastern Poland. One senior minister called it the greatest act of aggression since the end of the cold war. Meanwhile the Prime Minister backed the White House's statement that the U.S. plans are purely defensive, and to offer protection from rogue states. The Prime Minister also paid tribute to Alexander Borkhovin, the Russian Foreign Minister who died overnight, following his collapse yesterday from a suspected heart attack."_

Ros stood watching the BBC broadcast with her arms crossed in front of her, whilst she also kept her eyes on the technicians installing listening devices to the walls of the Grid. Considering Richard Dolby had also taken over Harry's office, she felt a few questions were in order.

Dolby had responded that Harry had been arrested under suspicion of being an FSB mole, to which she had characteristically replied, "That's impossible."

Dolby was also annoyingly in character. "That is entirely possible. And in his absence, I'm taking control of this section. I expect all officers to observe protocol. You work as normal, and you report directly to me. And while we continue investigations, all your communications will be recorded and analysed by Internal Security."

Ros lowered her voice, not believing what she was hearing. "This team is absolutely loyal to Harry Pearce. You cannot expect them to hear that information and carry on as if nothing's happened."

Dolby snapped out his answer. "I do not believe that Alexander Borkhovin died of a heart attack. I think the Russians are up to something, and until you find out what it is, and how it relates to this crisis, I don't want to hear another word."

Ros had dispatched the team with her usual efficiency. Alexander Borkhovin seemed to hold the key to what was happening to Harry, and Ros had everyone mobilised to find out how Borkhovin actually died. To top it all off, Lucas was missing, and no one had any idea where he was.

If everyone hadn't been quite so busy, they might have noticed that Connie was acting very strangely, almost as if she walked in a dream state. Before sitting down to listen to the chatter on the wires as Ros had instructed her to do, Connie watched Dolby as he talked on the phone to the Home Secretary. She had a fair talent for reading lips, a skill she'd picked up in Russia many years ago.

_I'm afraid that might not be true anymore, Sir. I believe Harry Pearce has been passing secrets to the FSB. I've sent you a dossier. I think you'll agree the evidence is irrefutable. _Connie put the headphones on, but kept her eyes riveted on Richard Dolby's lips. _Isolate him, identify and pull back his assets. I'm going to see him now, but I believe it will take more than asking. If I may, Sir, it would help if you would visit Harry later, after we've had a go at him. You may be a more convincing presence. Yes, thank you, Sir._

Connie watched as Dolby hung up the phone, exited Harry's office, and moved toward the pods. She smiled, knowing that Richard would be her greatest ally here on the Grid. They had, after all, worked together for over thirty years.

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE**

* * *

Harry knew where he was, as he sat alone in the cavernous room. He had certainly been here often enough, albeit sitting on the other side of the table. This was the special interrogations room, deep in the catacombs below Thames House, and it was reserved for singular guests – officers who stood charged with betrayal of the realm.

Harry had no idea how long he'd been here, or what time it was. He'd been cuffed and hooded whilst in his study, his knees sinking uncomfortably into the shattered glass on his recently acquired Persian rug, and then he'd been roughly thrown into a van and driven here.

The hood was an absurd, almost comical touch, of course, as Harry knew this building nearly as well as he knew his own home. He'd mentioned it once during the drive, but it seemed the current members of CO-19 had misplaced their senses of humour. Then it was on to the holding room, where he'd been summarily stripped and searched, which was always an unpleasant and humiliating process, and finally to the interrogation room with its one table and two chairs.

There was a bright light above the table, and Harry squinted up at it. He'd always felt that this room was like an operating theatre, with its surgeon's light overhead. He knew what was done in this room was very much like surgery. What was accomplished here was the extraction of information, not unlike the removal of a cancer, or some tainted, offending organ from the body politic.

In fact, although it looked like a simple cement-floored basement room, everything about it was calculated. Even the placement of the light itself was intentional, as it tended to transform anyone under it into a ghoul or something of another world. The dark shadows under the eyes, the nose and at the base of the lips to the chin, in stark contrast to the bright forehead and cheeks. It drew every feature down into macabre lines, rendering faces into the stuff of bad dreams.

And Harry knew that would come into play. Oh, how he wished he'd gotten more sleep in the last few days. He knew the script that had to be followed. He would tell them he's not the mole, and they wouldn't believe him. He would want to tell them the mole was Connie James, but he wouldn't, because he had no proof. Lucas would get him that proof, but until then, he wouldn't tip his hand about Connie. For now, he would talk only about Bernard, but he held out little hope that they would believe that, either.

_Oh, Connie_. Harry put his head in his hands, rubbing his forehead roughly. He had fallen for it all. Her tears, her years of service, her love for Hugo Prince, the wounded look in her eyes when he'd accused her. It was straight from the textbook, and he'd fallen for it. He remembered the way she had stared at him as she'd handed him the dossier, and now, with his new knowledge of her, he could recognise the triumph and the taste for blood in her eyes.

Harry put the heels of his hands on his eyes and pressed hard. _Bernard and Connie_. The two of them had been playing him for a long time, he supposed, and aside from the embarrassment of having fallen into that trap, Harry felt a sharp stab of something from his memory. He'd looked up to Connie and Bernard as older, wiser spies. He'd admired them, listened to them, tried to learn from them. But now Harry was feeling like a child again, naive, impressionable, gullible, remembering tricks played on him by the older boys in school.

_This won't do_. Harry inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. This was a night he would need every ounce of strength and training at his disposal. He looked around, seeing the silky darkness of the corners, and now, as he was alone, he stood, and walked the perimeter of the room. Later, when the drugs took effect, he would need this benign memory of the emptiness of these corners. He would be imagining every terror that still resided in the recesses of his brain, and they would all be living in this room. He needed to see now that they weren't really here.

He ran his hands across the firm, solid walls. They wouldn't be solid later, they would breathe and seem liquid, as if they were poised to drown him, to choke the life from him. Harry knew that he would want to say anything, admit anything, just to escape from this room, so now, he made it his ally. He peered up into the ceiling, far above, and saw that there was nothing there. And he gave himself a memory of comfort, of the unyielding protection of this room. In his mind, he made it a safe place, a warm place.

Warm. Yes, the heat was rising, as he expected, just another part of the process. As he felt the cool cement of the walls under his fingertips, Harry felt a trickle of sweat as it travelled from the back of his neck and down his spine to his bare buttocks below. He was naked under the thin, itchy material of the boiler suit, stripped bare, his genitals untethered, loose, vulnerable. And he said a silent prayer that he was in England, for at least Harry knew that this would be a brutal interrogation of the mind, but not of the body.

Harry sat again in the chair, and thought of Lucas, tortured for seventeen days without rest in the most vicious way possible. And now Lucas was his only hope. Lucas and Maria. After all these years of service to Britain, Harry was depending upon a man who had spent eight of the last nine years in a Russian prison, and a woman he hadn't seen in nearly nineteen years. It had all come down to this.

Now, before it all began in earnest, Harry closed his eyes and recalled the music. He began to hum softly, and the memory swelled in his head, almost as if he were still sitting in his study, in the most comfortable chair he owned. He heard the voices of _Nabucco_'s Hebrew slaves as they gained power from each other, their strength coming from their sheer numbers.

And as the music took hold inside him, he saw Ruth, her head in his lap, but this time, her eyes were open, and she was gazing up at him. "You're strong, Harry," she said, softly. "You're very strong." Then she reached her hand up to his cheek, and whispered, "I love you." The music enveloped them both, and Harry felt he could withstand anything.

Harry opened his eyes at the sound of the tumblers of the lock on the door. He looked up and saw Richard Dolby step into the room. Just behind Dolby, in the shadows, Harry could just make out the large and ominous form of Charles Grady.

* * *

Ruth woke with a start to find George gone. She looked at the bedside clock and saw that it was 10:15, hours later than she usually slept. George would have gotten Nico up, taken him to school, and then gone on to the hospital. It was a testament to how exhausted Ruth had been that she hadn't heard any part of that activity.

She ran her hand across her eyes, squinting at the early-summer sunshine that spilled into the room. Throwing back the covers, she sat up, and then stood and walked in her nightgown to the double doors that led out to the patio. They were open, and a soft breeze blew the sheer curtains inward. For a moment, she closed her eyes and remembered the bed at the Hotel Anassa, the feel of Harry's back as she snuggled against it, both of them fully clothed, napping peacefully.

Ruth opened her eyes again and sighed. So many memories that wouldn't go away, and she'd all but given up trying. Ruth walked out on to the patio and leant on the rail, looking out at the sea. Now she was remembering Isabelle's email from early this morning, and her dilemma about whether or not to answer it. She needed to understand if her answer would be truly necessary, or if she only wanted to write in order to make contact, to touch Harry somehow.

Her decision wasn't made any easier by the fact that all of her senses were telling her there was something wrong. She was getting better at compartmentalising, and for the most part, Harry now resided quietly in a corner of her heart that she didn't use often. He would always be there, but if she didn't open up that part of her and look at it, she found she could get on rather reasonably with her life. But as she stood now, gazing out at the blue of the sea, Harry's corner of her heart wasn't quiet. She couldn't isolate it, but there was a disturbance there.

Somehow it seemed to be connected to the message from Isabelle. If she were to send Harry the information, it would need to be cryptic, because the Baghdad operation had been as close to a black op as possible. It was entirely under the radar, and Ruth had to assume it had been kept from everyone, even from Malcolm.

Ruth turned and walked back into the house. For a moment she stood in the middle of the bedroom, undecided. Then she walked to the closet and put on her dressing robe. She would tell Harry, and let him decide from there. In the furthest recesses of her mind, Ruth realised that she hoped Harry might be afraid for her, and that he might want to protect her after reading Isabelle's note. She felt that thought drift by, and released it, unanalysed.

Ruth walked downstairs and went straight to the office, without even the cup of tea she was craving. By the time she had opened up the server, Ruth had determined what she would do. She simply copied Isabelle's message, and wrote her own brief introduction in French as well: _This arrived today from a friend. Thought you would like to know. R. _Before she could lose her nerve, she sent it on to Martin Wingate. She sat back, and thought, _Well, that's done, then. It will be what it will be_.

What Ruth didn't know was that Martin Wingate's email account had been temporarily disabled by Malcolm just a hour before she sent her message. When Ros came out to the Grid and explained that Richard Dolby was now monitoring all communications in and out of MI5, Malcolm had thought it was better to be safe than sorry.

* * *

Harry was trying extremely hard to retain his dignity as he looked across the table at the smug face of Richard Dolby. It wasn't helping that beneath Dolby's understandable concern for the Sugarhorse Operation was a self-righteousness, a sense of something Harry would almost classify as Dolby's delight at Harry's present predicament.

"You've betrayed Sugarhorse to the Russians." _Not even a question_, Harry thought. Richard said it as a statement.

Harry kept his anger in check, and answered evenly, "You must know, I would never do such a thing."

Richard spoke as matter-of-factly as if Harry were being briefed in his office. "Alexander Borkhovin is dead." This was distressing news to Harry, but he managed to keep his face passive as Richard continued. "The Russians claim he had a heart attack. What really happened to him?"

"I know as little as you do."

"Only three people knew that Borkhovin was a Sugarhorse asset. Me, you, and Hugo Prince."

_Ah, yes,_ Harry wanted to say, _and Connie James, and now Bernard Qualtrough_. But he answered calmly, "I have done nothing except protect and cultivate Borkhovin for our use."

The forged dossier sat on the table between them, where Dolby had put it when he first walked into the room. Pushing the file closer to Harry, Dolby now gave him an infuriatingly superior look. Harry's anger began to surface, and he raised his voice for a moment before he managed to gain control again. "That dossier was faked, probably by Bernard Qualtrough. It's part of the same attempt to attack Sugarhorse just at the point we need it most."

Dolby wasn't listening. "Look Harry, I want the names of all the Sugarhorse assets that you passed to the FSB."

Although it felt futile, Harry had to keep trying to convince him. "Can't you see you're being manipulated into demanding my names, because they know once they go into circulation, the FSB will be able to get their hands on them?"

Richard leant forward slightly. "Give me the names of your assets." _A bloody broken record_, Harry thought, rubbing his forehead in exasperation, but Richard was still talking and getting more dramatic by the minute, "You've already made your betrayal. You've already destroyed the network. If you have a shred of humanity, you'll let me pull out your assets with my own and debrief whatever intelligence we can from them."

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. _How can I make him understand that this is all we have left? _"Sugarhorse is our only insurance against a resurgent Russia. If things escalate over the missile shield, the fact that my network is still in place may be our only hope."

Not only was Richard not listening, Harry saw him incline his head toward the door, as someone stepped out of the shadows. Softly, Richard said, "I think you know Charles Grady." Harry looked over at Grady and exhaled, closing his eyes_. Now it begins_. Richard said, patronizingly, "At least you're familiar with his work."

Richard stood and walked toward the door, but as he passed Harry, he bent down and spoke in nearly a whisper. "I want those names."

Richard left the room, and Harry now looked across the table into the very familiar eyes of Charles Grady. Charles smiled benevolently and said, "So, perhaps you'll give me a different response." Grady straightened the dossier on the table between them. "Betrayal is a lonely business, isn't it, Harry?"

"I wouldn't know." Harry was starting to prepare himself for what was to come. He was beginning to hear the first strains of the music in his head.

Charles was speaking in the soothing tones of a friend, and was still smiling. "That secret feeling of power fades so quickly. And the only thing that can bring it back is more betrayal. The irony is that each betrayal can only lead deeper into the loneliness you were trying to escape from in the first place." Harry had heard this speech before, many times. It was the prelude, the overture to Charles Grady's performance. And now, Grady spoke the words Harry had known would be next, "I'm here to help you. To release you from your loneliness."

As Grady stood and walked to another table now in the room, Harry still tried to convince him, although he knew he might as well be talking to himself. "The only help I need is in apprehending Qualtrough and working out how he framed me."

"I did make some inquiries after you mentioned him earlier." Harry heard the clink of glass against steel. He kept his eyes forward, although he might as well have been watching. Harry knew that now Grady would be selecting just the right weapon from his arsenal while he spoke, "I learnt Bernard Qualtrough has been a permanent resident of Bangkok for the last twelve years. Apparently he loves the climate. Either way, he hasn't set foot in the UK since 1996."

Harry shook his head. "No, he's in this country now. He's in this country because he forged this dossier you've been reading." Harry pointed with thinly veiled anger to the file on the table.

"Give me the names of your assets, Harry, and this can all be over very quickly."

Harry heard Charles tap on the glass of the hypodermic. He was trying to keep calm, but the heat was rising in the room, and he was beginning to feel the sweat slide down his chest under the boiler suit. "Y-you have to go to his bookshop."

"There is no bookshop." Another clink of glass.

Harry wiped the sweat from his upper lip. "It's in Greenwich." Although Grady was still standing at his worktable, Harry could almost feel the needle at his neck. He imagined the sharp stab of pain as it entered him, and the burn as the drugs moved into his bloodstream.

"The names, Harry." Grady's footsteps now, coming closer.

Harry's voice rose higher, louder. "Listen to me! I can't give you the names. If I give you the names, it will destroy the network. It will just lead the FSB straight to them!"

And now it wasn't simply imagination as Grady's hand clutched at Harry's shoulder to keep him still, and then within a split second, the needle broke through the skin on his neck. Harry felt the anger surge through him, but he waited to express it, not wanting to break off the slender piece of metal whilst it was still in his body.

The moment he felt Charles withdraw the needle, Harry pounded the table with his fists in frustration. He knew the sudden rush of blood would circulate the drugs quickly, and now he felt it, the lightheadedness, the loss of contact with his extremities, the disturbing disorientation. Then mild euphoria, a floating sensation, an urge not to care what was happening to him, a fragile peace.

This is when Harry would find out if the work he had done earlier had taken hold. He reached back through the rapidly narrowing tunnel and tried to remember, what? _Ah, yes, the music_. It came as if from a long way away, faintly, but gaining strength. Echoing now, first one voice, then another, the Hebrew Slaves, joining together until Harry's whole head was filled with them.

But there was one voice that stood out, a woman's voice humming, and then he saw her. _My Ruth_. And he thought, _No, you can't be here, shhhhhhhh, you're a secret._ He didn't want her to go away, because he loved her so much and she looked so beautiful, but he thought, _Go now, because they can't know about you_.

Harry shook his head again, hard, and she was gone. Only the music remained. He looked up and Charles Grady was sitting across from him. His voice seemed to come from the furthest corner of the room, and he spoke as a parent might speak to a frightened child.

"Now. Let's begin, shall we?"

* * *

After arriving at Domodedovo Airport in Moscow, Lucas took a taxi to Maria Korachevsky's flat, where he now stood on the street outside. He knew Ros would be wondering where he was, so finally he dialled her mobile. He couldn't have known it was on the charger, and that Ros was away from her desk. He also couldn't have known that at that moment, Connie was standing behind Ros' computer screen, trying to determine what new intel Ros had found on Borkhovin.

When Ros' mobile rang, Connie looked at it, and saw that the calling number was being withheld. She thought it might be Lucas, so she looked around to make sure no one was watching her, and she picked up. "Hello?" In the silence that followed, Connie was listening for any ambient noise, any clue as to where Lucas was, although she already had a fairly good idea.

Lucas was startled to hear the voice he least expected. "Where's Ros?"

Connie looked across the Grid at Ros in Harry's office, talking to Dolby, and she said, "I'm afraid she's with the in-laws. They've rather taken up residence. Where are you, Lucas?" When he didn't answer, Connie repeated the question. "Lucas, where are you?"

Although Connie was doing a competent job of hiding it, Lucas could hear the desperation in her voice. He needed to get off this line. Ros would have to be in the dark for just a while longer. "I'm on a little antiques buying jaunt."

Connie was quick with her answer. "Would you like me to get you some assistance getting all the purchases back?"

Lucas was still on the street outside Maria's flat. "No." Suddenly, a woman in front of him broke a heel as she called for a taxi, and shouted, _Chert eto novye botinki!_ Connie clearly heard the female voice cursing her new shoes, and her heart began to race.

"I'll be fine. Bye." Lucas rang off quickly.

Connie hung up, and then deleted the received call. So Lucas was in Russia, and Harry had probably sent him there for another dossier from Maria Korachevsky. Connie quickly went to the roof of Thames House and made a call to Bernard Qualtrough.

"I believe Lucas North is in Moscow, obtaining another of my files. He needs to be stopped. And I know it's sooner than we thought, but while we're at it, we might as well eliminate Harry's asset as well."

* * *

The table was gone, and Harry couldn't remember how. _Oh, yes_, he thought, narrowing his eyes, it had been pulled, its metal legs screeching across the cement, setting his teeth on edge, disturbing the music. Now he sat alone in the middle of the room, with no protection, his arms paralysed. He wiggled his fingers. _No, not paralysed, but tied_. The pressure of the straps pulled against him, and he stilled.

Harry watched as Grady walked about the room, tall, imposing, powerful. _Who is he? Yes, Charles something. I know who he is, and what he does. He wants the names. _No matter what Harry said or did, it all came back to that. The names. And every time Charles asked, Harry heard the music, beautiful, thunderous, and magnificent, in his head.

But suddenly, Harry gasped_. Graham. He just asked about Graham._ The music stopped, and Harry turned, "My son has nothing to do with this."

"Hasn't he? What about your wife?"

_My wife? Ruth? Ruth is my wife, but he can't know about Ruth. Shhhhhhhhhh, Ruth is a secret. Go away, Ruth! _Harry was confused, but then he realised that Charles was talking about Jane, Graham's mother, his ex-wife. _Not my wife. My ex-wife_.

"My ex-wife has nothing to do with this. My family ... family have nothing to do with my work." The music was coming back, but not the slaves singing, it was carousel music, and there was Graham on a brown horse with red ears, going round and round.

_Daddy! Daddy, look __at__ me! Graham is laughing. When did I last hear Graham laugh? He never laughs now. Did I make him stop? He's wearing the blue shirt, the one I got in Paris, with Juliet, and gave him for Christmas ... That was wrong, wasn't it? Graham never knew Juliet, I shouldn't have..._

_Too loud, too hot in this room._ Harry felt another drip of sweat as it tickled its way down his chest. The man was still speaking. "Of course, that's right, given that your work is your life, that's meant that your family's had nothing to do with _you_."

"I had to keep them apart. I had to protect them." Y_ou don't understand, you couldn't understand ... it was dangerous, there were guns, and vicious people, everyone wanted to get to me...they would have hurt them. Catherine ... _

Charles Grady wasn't listening. "And what protection you gave. The kind of protection that meant that you would never be available, you would never be there, you would always be more involved with things that were more important to you. The kind of protection that meant that you betrayed every single ideal and demand they had of you as a husband and a father."

Graham was calling now ... _Daddy ... Daddy_ ... and Catherine, too. Their faces, so open, wanting only to be loved. _They only wanted me to love them_. And now, as he watched the carousel turn, Ruth was there_. My wife, my Ruth. You only wanted me to love you, too, didn't you? To turn away from the job and come to you._ Ruth rode the carousel, unsmiling, with her hand on Graham's shoulder, standing next to him, keeping him safe. Her other hand held Catherine's tiny one, so firm, so trusting.

_I've lost it all. It's all gone._

"You're right." Harry stared at the visions only he could see, his eyes wide, his breath coming fast now.

"Betrayal is a pathology, Harry. Just like your son's drug addiction, just like your wife's depression. There are symptoms, mmm? Failed relationships, a tendency to anger quickly, a preference for heavy alcohol consumption."

_That's me. He's describing me. But not only me ... all of us_. It was all so absurd, that Harry couldn't stifle a laugh. "You're describing half the people in this organisation!"

"I'm describing a profile that many people share features with, but for which you provide the perfect match." Now it was Jane speaking, saying the same words to him. They were shouting at each other. He saw Graham and Catherine crouched on the stairs, their faces pale, gripping the finely-turned newel posts, afraid of him. _Don't be afraid, it's Daddy, I love ... I love ..._ Harry shook his head to erase the vision, and watched the sweat fly, sparkling in front of his eyes.

Now Jane was Ruth, shouting at him, angry, her features distorted, but she was saying, _I loved you!_ Loved, past tense. He started to say _No, Ruth, you love me still_, but he stopped himself, _Shhhhhh, Ruth is a secret, can't say her name ..._ So Harry turned and focused on _him_ again, the man who was shouting...

"Give me those names, Harry. Give me the names of all the assets you have betrayed. You know that you want to do it. You know you want to tell me."

_Graham is gone. Catherine is gone. Jane is gone._ Harry felt himself beginning to disappear. _Ruth is gone. There's nothing left. Nothing but my job._ Slowly the music started again, as if he were coming late into the opera, moving into the high-ceilinged, ornate theatre, and there they were, the slaves, as exhausted as he was, but singing nonetheless. Their voices grew louder, and Harry felt his strength returning. He walked down the aisle to the stage, and now they all turned and were singing to him. He closed his eyes and felt their life, their determination, flow through him.

Harry opened his eyes, and there she was, his Ruth. She was smiling up at him, and she said again, "You're strong, Harry."

Harry turned to Charles Grady and said, "I want to reassure the Home Secretary ..."

Charles opened his mouth, but Harry could only hear the music. That and Ruth's sweet voice, repeating, "I love you, Harry. You're strong. Don't tell them. Don't ever tell them."


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX**

* * *

Lucas was grateful that Maria made no sound when she came through the door and saw him sitting on the one chair in her flat. He held up the silver ring with the blue stone, and he saw the immediate recognition in her eyes. A flash of memory crossed her face, then she walked quickly to the radio to switch it on and turn up the volume.

In Russian, Lucas asked in low tones, "Are they listening?"

Maria answered, evenly. "Of course."

Lucas took the plane ticket out of his inside coat pocket. "Harry gave me this for you." Maria opened the envelope and saw that her destination was London. For a moment, she let it sink in. _Ah, London. Harry. But he said that he would come himself, so something has gone wrong_.

"Are you ready?" Lucas asked.

Maria sighed softly. "I have been ready for fifteen years." She looked up at Lucas. "But poor Harry, this must be serious if it has come to this."

The radio continued its drone of Russian in the background. Lucas remembered Harry's request of him in the early morning hours. "Harry asked me to apologise for not being in touch. He said he hoped you'd understand."

Maria let a good-natured laugh escape. "_Kogda vy lyubite kogo-to, vse vse ponimayut_."

Lucas translated, "When you love someone, everything is understood." He smiled at the well of memories he saw moving behind her eyes.

"Gorky," she said. Maria could still see Harry stretched across her bed reading aloud from Gorky's _A Girl and Death_, his voice sonorous and filled with emotion as the snow fell heavily beyond the windows.

Lucas liked Maria immediately. She had a wisdom, a calm about her that was, in many ways, similar to Harry's. The memory of Harry's voice on the phone this morning, and the look he saw now in Maria's eyes, told him that there had been something significant between them. Lucas thought she was a person he would enjoy talking with about Gorky and her views on Russia, and perhaps when she was safely back in London, there would be time. But for now, he had to keep moving. "Do you have all we need?"

Maria gave a small shake of her head. "I had to plant the package. It is one thing if I get picked up, but this is too important to lose."

"Where will I find it?"

"I hope it contains what you need." She turned to the desk, wrote directions on a piece of paper, and handed it to him. "Cafe Bedoin. You will find a friend there. You will have to be on your guard. I intercepted messages to my superior. They are looking for you."

Lucas glanced up quickly from the paper. Any doubts he'd had about Connie now vanished, because he knew that only she could have told them he was in Moscow. He moved toward the window, and looked out, as Maria continued, "They know already that you're not in London. Next thing they'll do is check flight manifests. You cannot leave Moscow under the same name."

He turned to Maria. "Can you get me another identity?"

"I have done that already. My friend will give you the documents you need to get out of Russia."

Maria's voice was unshaken and filled with resolve. With a surge of gratitude and respect, Lucas thought, _Of course, this would be a woman that Harry would choose._ "Harry said you were formidable."

Without emotion, she stated, "We were well-matched."

Lucas gave her the hint of a smile to let her know he understood, and then he walked to the door of the flat and opened it. Maria said quickly, "Be careful, they will be everywhere."

Lucas stopped and turned. "Maria, you know they'll notice what you've done."

She spoke with defiance, and clearly enjoyed the chance to finally say these words. "I will be on a flight to London."

Lucas felt an urge to stay with her and be certain she got on that plane, but he heard Harry again from this morning: _Do your best to keep her from danger, but your priority must be the package that exposes the mole. Maria's a formidable woman. She will care for herself_. Lucas gave Maria one backwards glance, and said, "Spasibo." _Thank you_.

"Zabotitʹsya." _Take care_.

Lucas left quickly, and Maria sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a sense of joy, thinking, _I will see Harry again_. He wouldn't be alone after all these years, of that she was certain. He would be married again, or in love, as a man with so much passion would have to be. Maria smiled to herself. _It's alright. I would like only to see him again, and then, again, I will let him go_.

When Lucas had handed her the ring, she'd put it in her pocket, and now she pulled it out and slipped it on her finger. It was a bit tighter, but she moistened her skin and finally, it slid past her knuckle. Closing her eyes, she remembered the moment he'd left, and her fervent request. "Please come back to me." So much had happened since then, but still she loved Harry. She always would.

_London_. She'd dreamt of this moment. Maria stood and opened the drawers to her armoire, emptying it. She pulled her valise from under the bed and began folding her clothes into it, neatly, methodically.

Suddenly, from behind her, Maria heard a sharp blow to the door, and the metallic sound as the lock gave way. She stopped folding and stood tall, motionless, and her heart fell. _No...please, not now. No trip to London after all. And no Harry._ She blinked, and there he was in her mind, as Harry always appeared to her: a man of thirty-seven, his blonde curls just grazing the collar of his shirt, his eyes sparkling, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. She had grown older, but in her mind, he never had. And now, he never would.

The door opened behind her, and Maria gave a slight nod. _It will have to be later, Harry. I'll see you later_. He was still smiling at her, even as she felt the bullets pierce her back. One went through her heart, and Maria's very last thought was of him.

* * *

Ruth ran her hands along the wooden stand that held the freshly-caught fish. She pointed to one of them, and said in Greek, "That one, please, Tarasios." _Don't forget the wine_, she reminded herself. As he wrapped the fish in paper, she checked her bags again. Tomatoes, acorn squash, yellow peppers, lemons, and flat-leaf parsley. Some cakes for Nico for dessert. Now all she needed was the wine.

They tended to go through wine rather quickly these days. George had just brought three of the large bottles from the vineyard on Friday, and Ruth had looked this morning and found none. _It will get better, and we won't need it so much. It's just the newness of it, isn't it? Of living together?_ She took the wrapped fish and placed it in her bag, and then paid for it.

Ruth paused. She was so close to the water, and she could never resist the sound of the waves. _Just for a moment,_ she thought. "Tarasios, would you mind putting these on ice as I ..." Tarasios smiled at her and nodded, taking the bag. It wasn't the first time she'd asked him, and it would surely not be the last. He knew that Miss Benson loved the sea, and would be gone for at least an hour. He placed the bag in the shade under his cart, on the ice.

Now free of her purchases, Ruth swung her arms luxuriously at her sides, and walked in long strides toward the beach. It was already a hot morning, and she was glad she had worn her straw hat to come into town. Looking round, she realised again that she missed the bustle of the Square with its sounds and smells of scooters, and cooking, the voices of mothers and their children, and the clatter of the cobblestone streets. It was lovely to have the privacy of the mountains, but now that Ruth no longer worked at the hospital, her life had grown somewhat insular. Unless she came to town regularly, it consisted of George, Nico, Christina's family, and the families in the hills that they saw on George's rounds.

Ruth removed her sandals and felt the pleasure of the sand between her toes. The surface was just beginning to warm in the early morning sun, but digging down, she found the cool underneath where the heat had dissipated through the night. Ruth perched herself on the rock wall and pulled her hat down a bit further against the sun. The sea was beautiful today. It was beautiful every day. And there beyond it, was London.

Her past was always there, ready to be accessed, and it continued to surprise her how easily and quickly it could happen. As if she simply clicked to another channel on the telly. Ruth liked to think she'd forgotten, in fact, she willed herself to forget, but all it took was a brief moment of closing her eyes. She would feel a tickle of memory go down her spine, and she was back in Bath with Harry. At the Moon and Sixpence, nervous, wondering what it was going to be like to touch his skin, feel him all round her, inside her, kissing her ...

Ruth opened her eyes and took a sharp breath. Just like that, and Harry was here. Sitting on this wall alongside her, looking at the sea, holding her hand. Some days, she felt strong enough to think of him, to remember everything, but during her fragile days, it would only take a moment of remembering his touch to begin the swelling of tears that forced her to close off the compartment and concentrate on other things.

Today the sunshine was giving her strength, so she tiptoed into that closed part of her heart. She hadn't heard back from Malcolm yet, and didn't know whether she should even expect a reply. It had only been a day, after all, and she still wasn't completely sure what to make of the news that Isabelle had sent. Ruth had put her best analyst's mind to the task of finding herself from Mani's perspective, and had come up short each time.

But finding Harry might be a bit easier. All they would need to do was to follow him from Thames House to home, or watch for a meeting at Whitehall, or the JIC. If someone like Amish Mani needed to find Harry Pearce, it wouldn't be much of a stretch. And as Ruth gazed out at the lovely, untroubled Mediterranean Sea, she was worried for Harry.

He was no longer hers, but she still needed to know that he was safe somewhere. That he was in his office, pacing. Behind his desk, frowning. Ruth closed her eyes again, and saw him from across the Grid. He looked up at her, and she felt one of their shared moments, with just the hint of a smile on both their faces. That smile was all they had needed to say what was in their hearts.

And as Ruth sat on the rock wall, on an island in the middle of the sea, she squinted into the sun and wondered once more if she would ever see Harry Pearce again.

* * *

_So hot. And the lights, so bright. Like four, no, five, suns revolving around me. They aren't really moving, I know that. Nor are the walls, nor the ceiling. I looked before, to be sure, didn't I? There's nothing there. Nothing there. The music ... find the music ... find Ruth ... no, not Ruth ... Ruth's a secret ... find the music ..._

Harry heard it start again, comforting, steady. He heard the voices singing, his heart began to calm, and he breathed again.

But then he heard something else. First the sound was rather like a fly, then a bee, then the distant echo of drums. It was getting louder, as if Harry had stepped into the middle of a gathering storm, then a hurricane, then louder still. The music couldn't compete with it, it was deafening, the roar of a train, and then a voice, Grady's voice, loud, insistent, accusing. Harry couldn't find the music anymore, he couldn't even hear himself think.

But the voice broke through, as if it were a part of the thunder of noise. It rose, saying, "You've got lots of liars on your team, Harry!" _Harry frowned, and thought, yes, that's true. Connie lied, Bernard lied. I trusted Bernard, I trusted Connie. The old team. Now I'm trusting Lucas. Perhaps he's a liar, too._

Harry saw Bernard's face in front of him, and it changed into Lucas, and then back, morphing slowly, bizarrely. Then Connie and Maria, not the Maria in the recent profile he'd seen, but the Maria of twenty years ago, with long, light brown hair, sweet round eyes, and a warm bed_. I used her. I use everyone_. Then Maria's round eyes changed to Connie's, narrowing, growing old. _Now they're using me_.

The noise wouldn't stop. "You've got lots of liars on your team, Harry! Do you know why?" _No, I don't know why, I don't understand it at all. Why? Tell me. What did I do?_

"Because you understand them. Because you're the biggest liar of all. King Liar!" _Yes, I am! I know that. I let Maria think I would come to her, and I never did. I told Ruth I would come to her, and I never did that either, did I? Now she's with Graham and Catherine and they're gone ... gone, all gone ..._

"LIAR!" The voice raised and joined with the rumble of sound, the train, the drums, the hurricane. Harry didn't think anyone would hear him, so he threw back his head and shouted along with the voice. "LIAR!" It felt good to finally say it, what he'd known for so long ... he said it now for all of them, Ruth, Jane, Graham, Catherine, Maria ...

Suddenly, the sound stopped, and Harry heard only his own voice, hoarse, ragged, distant, still shouting into the silence. The five suns flickered out, and his voice trailed away on his diminishing breath into the darkness.

* * *

The pieces were beginning to fit together for Ros. Alexander Borkhovin, Russia's Foreign Secretary, had been a Sugarhorse asset. It was now clear that his heart attack had not occurred naturally, but that he'd been murdered by the FSB. He was one of Hugo Prince's assets, but had been passed on to Harry upon Hugo's death. So either Hugo had told someone else about Borkhovin, or, what Dolby had said was true, Harry had told the FSB and had Borkhovin killed.

Ben had discovered that Borkhovin's file had been signed out twenty-five times by Hugo Prince, which was not entirely surprising. What caught his eye was that the last time the file was signed out was the day after Hugo Prince's death. Ros knew that if she found out who had signed out the file that day, she would find the mole in Section D. And she knew it could still be Harry. So she sent Ben back down to the Archives to find out who had accessed Borkhovin's file after Prince's death.

Ros still didn't know where Lucas was, but had she known, even more pieces would have fallen into place. Lucas had retrieved the package Maria had hidden, and upon opening it, had found the photo of the MI5 mole. Proof that it was Connie James.

Lucas immediately called Harry's mobile, and got his message. He hung up and dialled Harry's private office phone on the Grid, and heard Richard Dolby's voice, and hung up_. The in-laws have rather taken up residence_, Connie had said. Next, Lucas had called Ros, but had gotten her message as well, and he was running out of options. So Lucas called Ben, knowing he was more likely to be in the field, and he trusted him.

Ben heard Lucas say, "Connie is the mole. She is the Russian mole!" But it only corroborated what he had just learnt himself. He held the piece of paper that showed Connie was the one who had accessed Borkhovin's file after Hugo Prince's death.

"Luca –," Ben started to respond, but was stopped by the sound of the Archives door opening.

Connie James walked in and closed the door behind her. "Getting short of time. Ros thought you might need some help."

Ben closed his mobile, but he still wore a trace of the surprising news around his eyes. Connie tilted her head at him. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Sure ..." He tucked the Borkhovin file sign-out sheet in his trouser pocket and hoped that Connie hadn't seen. But she had. She pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

"What's up?" Connie asked.

"Nothing. I just feel like my eyes are about to pack in." Ben sat back in his chair, feigning exhaustion.

Connie turned to him and said sweetly, "Why don't you take a short break. I'll make us both a cup of tea."

Ben leant forward again, and pulled out another stack of papers. "No, you're alright. You go, I'm fine here."

Connie stood behind him, and she paused for a moment. "Okay. No tea." She moved closer behind him, reaching into her blouse. As she spoke, she withdrew a very thin, very sharp piece of wire. She spoke in the soothing manner that a mother might use to speak to her son. "You're very young. Too young to be wasting your life with this nonsense." She walked quietly up to him and raised the wire over his head.

Ben wanted her to leave, so he didn't turn round to speak to her. He said softly, casually, "It's my duty. I don't mind."

With one quick pull, Connie drew the wire sharply across Ben's neck, being certain to sever both the internal and external jugular veins, and hoping also to cut the carotid artery. She looked quickly at her watch, knowing that death would occur within one minute if all three were cut, within about two minutes if she had missed the carotid. If an air bubble managed to enter the jugular, Ben would also suffer a sudden, lethal embolism.

She stood back and watched him, knowing that now it would simply be a matter of time. Ben stood, and then stumbled, losing copious amounts of blood as he leant across the table covered with papers, struggling toward the door. Connie saw Hugo's signature turn red, then run, and then disappear completely on the sign-out sheets. It seemed only right somehow. The Services had killed Hugo, just as surely as if someone had pulled a trigger. They had made him sick, and she'd lost him.

Now this young man's blood was washing it all clean. It was like a sacrifice of sorts, a ritual cleansing, and Connie gazed on Ben's struggle with a sort of reverence, a gratitude for the gift he was giving of his life to the cause. Her cause. The cause of Mother Russia.

Ben fell to the floor and rolled over on his back, and Connie knew he had only seconds to live. She bent over him, and spoke gently, calmly. "It's alright. It's okay. It'll be over soon. It's okay."

Connie reached into his pocket and took the paper that she had signed so long ago. She stood, threw the wire to the floor, and stepped gingerly around the pool of blood that now surrounded Ben Kaplan's body. Going quickly to the door, she closed and locked it, and then broke the lock with the fire extinguisher from the wall.

Ben's heart was still pumping the blood from his body, but it was quieter now. He struggled for one more breath, and then his heart stopped altogether.

* * *

Harry had gotten through the worst of it, for now. He knew the drugs were barbiturate-based, and continued injections would either completely anesthetise him, or they would kill him. Neither of those outcomes would help Charles Grady achieve his goal, so Harry had a reprieve for a time.

But now Harry was thoroughly exhausted. He felt he had encountered every failure, every lost opportunity, every discarded friend and loved one that his fifty-odd years of life could hold. He felt them all acutely. And he knew he would never be the same. It was too much to process, all at once.

On some level, Harry knew he would walk out of this room, and ultimately he would be cleared, even if he had to go to prison for a time. Whether Lucas had gotten the evidence, whether Harry could convince them, no matter what, he knew that Connie would make a move that would expose her. She would attempt to escape to Russia, and with or without any evidence, this would all be behind him.

But he would never forget the revelations of the last sixteen hours, because they had burned themselves onto his soul. He'd seen the faces of Graham and Catherine, of Ruth, of Jane, of Maria, and everyone he had ever hurt or stepped over. They had been unflinching in their accusations, just as he had himself. Harry felt as if he'd passed through the Final Judgement and had been consigned to his own hell.

He couldn't hear the music anymore. All he could hear was his own voice, droning in the distance. _I am a man of limitations. I have fallen short in every possible area of my life, and I don't even know what it's all been for. _And in this profound moment of self-realisation, another voice droned on. Charles Grady was still asking the same infuriatingly repetitive question. He was single-mindedly unaware of the personal agony Harry was experiencing, and the epiphany this interrogation had caused in him.

"You've not given me any names, Harry."

Harry had nothing left to give, so he fell back on his memorisation from his first studies in the military. His voice was a monotone, flat, emotionless. "Hard interrogation is singularly ineffective against those who have nothing to hide." He propped his head on his hands, in large part to get his hands to stop shaking.

The light was still bright overhead, and it was doing nothing to help Harry's excruciating headache. At least Charles was no longer shouting. He was speaking softly, almost kindly, "You know what they've already worked out on your floor? That Borkhovin was murdered. You ordered it didn't you ? As a first step to dismantling the network the West depends upon to neutralise Russia?"

"I did not order it." Harry kept his eyes closed, hoping to move the sharp pain in his head down to a manageable throb.

"Come on Harry, it was only you and Richard Dolby knew he was an asset. It doesn't matter how much you lie. Your own team is already piecing it together. You know how smart they are. You know how quickly they'll get to the truth. I'll tell you something else. They want to nail you even more than I do. Because of the way you've betrayed us."

Harry uncovered his face and leant back in the chair, gazing at his tormentor with a look of unmitigated hatred. He was hungry, he was thirsty, his head was splitting, and he hadn't slept more than three hours in the last thirty-six. He thought if he had an ounce of energy, he would simply reach across the table and snap Charles Grady's neck.

* * *

Connie was getting desperate. Lucas had already called once, and for all she knew, he would call again. Richard Dolby had made certain every call was being recorded, so once they found Ben's body, they would likely discover the call, and she was certain Lucas knew by now that she was an double agent.

She'd already gone to the roof and called Bernard in Moscow, asking to be pulled out immediately. He'd refused, telling her to hold her nerve and wait until she got Harry's list of assets. As she walked across the Grid, she knew that it was time to use her relationship with Richard Dolby. She walked directly to Harry's office and stepped inside the door.

"What is it?" Dolby asked.

Her first step was to discredit Lucas. Connie spoke softly, conspiratorially. "I have something that might interest you. I know Lucas North is in Moscow."

"What's he doing there?"

And Connie also needed to make sure Dolby mistrusted Ros. "I'm not sure, but Ros Myers knows he's there. She's not telling you because she expects him to make contact. They're playing a very complex game. If you want to find out what they're up to, you'd better catch them in the act.

"And how can I do that?"

_Good God, but Dolby is slow_, Connie thought. _I'll have to lead him to it, then_. "I think I need to hear what's on that listening device. I was just with Ben Kaplan. He got a call from outside. I'm convinced it was Lucas." Dolby said nothing, but sighed. Connie was getting impatient. "Richard, you and I have worked together for more than thirty years. Unless you find out what Harry's team is up to, everything that you and Hugo worked for is at stake. You don't want them to destroy that."

Dolby didn't take more than a few seconds to decide. "I'll take you to the listening suite."

_Oh, no you won't_. Connie put a hand out to stop him. "No, you stay here and keep and eye on them. I'll go. I'll tell you what I find."

Richard wrote some numbers on a piece of paper. "Right. This code will open the sound files."

Connie strode down the hall toward the listening suite. _Well_, she thought, smiling, _That was easier than I thought. It's a blessing that Dolby is such an idiot._ Now all she had to do was to find and destroy Lucas' call to Ben.

* * *

Amish Mani liked London quite a lot. It was a cosmopolitan city, with a large number of sophisticated people who appreciated good manners and fine breeding, both of which he felt he exemplified.

Mani had put the word out to his network in London that anyone who delivered Harry Pearce to him alive would receive an extremely large sum of money. The money would never change hands, of course, because Mani had no intention of paying, but Harry would be in his control soon enough. So now he, McCall and Hillier would wait. Harry had double-crossed them all, and Mani was determined that he would feel the pain of that betrayal.

And Mani's plans were all coming together. Just yesterday, his head of operations, Ojas, had brought him some welcome news. He'd placed Sophie Persan's Paris driving licence photo next to a picture of a sombre-looking woman with her hair pulled back. They were clearly the same woman, and when told to turn the second picture over, Mani had smiled as he'd read the label: _Ruth Evershed, Senior Analyst, MI5_. The word below her name had been equally interesting: _Deceased_. Even more fascinating was the date of death. Over three months _before_ Mani had sat next to this same lovely lady at dinner.

After some digging by McCall and especially Hillier at MI6, Mani had discovered that Miss Evershed had a bit of a chequered past. Murder, assault, treason, and now it seemed she had faked her death and fled from England to avoid prosecution.

_Tut tut_, Mani thought, _Harry had undoubtedly helped her in the deception_. There was no advantage to letting the Security Services know about any of this, but it was just another piece of the puzzle that Mani held in his back pocket. This would be a most interesting interrogation indeed, and Mani had to admit, he was quite looking forward to it.

So after seeing the photos, Mani had nodded to Ojas, indicating that the search on Cyprus would now include two names, Sophie Persan, and Ruth Evershed. The townspeople had been suspicious so far of the men asking questions, but there had been three visibly drunk young men last night whose eyes had flickered at the photo, and one had laughed.

They'd called her the _Angliká ómorfi gynaíka, _the "beautiful English woman," and they'd said it with a sneer. They thought she'd had a flat in town for a time, but they had no idea where she was now. Perhaps she'd moved off-island.

That was enough for Mani to go on, and now he was sure that Sophie was still there. But it was no longer Sophie Persan that Mani was looking for. Now, when he thought of her, he called her Ruth.

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN**

* * *

Finally, Charles Grady had left him alone. But Harry wasn't sure which was worse, Grady's haranguing or his own stabbing shame. He could hardly manage to hold his head up, or to keep his eyes open. The drugs had left him drained and now slightly nauseated, and it was taking every bit of his strength to stay upright.

Lucas had to be back in London soon, or at the very least, he would have passed the information about Connie on to Ros. Harry knew they wouldn't leave him here for long. To pass the time, he worked out how it would all happen. Lucas would get the proof to Ros, and Ros would disregard Dolby and go directly to the Home Secretary. Connie would be arrested, and Dolby, who Harry was sure had been sitting in his chair all this time, would be relieved of his self-appointed duties on the Grid.

And what would happen next? An apology, certainly, which Harry would accept with the good grace and dignity of his office. A glass of cold water, a hot shower, some decent clothes, a fine English meal, beef and potatoes, perhaps, with a large tumbler of single malt, and yes, leave the bottle, if you please. And then, finally, blessed sleep. Harry could see it, he could taste it, all of it. Soon. It would certainly have to be soon.

Harry heard the door again, and looked up. _Oh, Christ, yes. The Home Secretary_. Harry released a sigh of infinite relief as he watched Nicholas Blake move through the doors and into the interrogation room. _Finally, it's over_.

Harry was almost too weak to stand, and when he pushed his chair back he saw flashes of light dancing in front of his eyes. But he _would_ stand. Not so much for the entrance of the Home Secretary, but to show Blake that he still understood the dignity of his own office as the Head of Section D, Security Services of Her Majesty the Queen. To show that no matter how he looked, no matter what humiliations he'd been through, Sir Harry Pearce was still, and would always be, a gentleman.

Harry would have put his hand out to shake the Home Secretary's, just as if he were standing behind his own desk on the Grid, but unfortunately, he had to steady himself against the table to keep from toppling over. It couldn't be helped. And his voice was feeble and out of breath, but Harry summoned what little strength he had left to address Blake.

"Home Secretary. I apologise for being out of contact today. A little local misunderstanding has arisen." Harry could no longer stand, as he was afraid he might pass out. He fell back into the chair just in time. But even through the haze of his exhaustion, Harry had to admit to himself that the Home Secretary didn't look like a man who was intending to apologise. He looked quite angry, actually, and what was worse, he had a look about him that seemed to indicate a sort of personal disappointment.

Blake's flat, cold voice did nothing to dispel Harry's increasing fear. "I've seen the dossier, Harry."

_Ah, yes, he just needs to hear it from me. He'll believe it's been faked once he hears it from me._ "The dossier. It's a forgery. There's not a single word of it is true." Harry's breath was coming in short bursts now, and he was more than a little worried that he might lose consciousness. He focused his eyes on Nicholas Blake and the rest of the room began to disappear, as if they both stood in a narrow tunnel. _I have to stay present. I have to focus_.

Blake started speaking, eloquently, with magnitude. "The world is on the edge of an abyss." Harry thought for a moment that they might be on the floor of Parliament. _Ah, he's giving a speech. I'll just listen, and soon he'll take me out of here._ "The Americans will do everything to complete their missile defence program. And the Russians will do everything to stop it. The ace up our sleeve was Sugarhorse."

_Was? Not was. I still have my names. I never told them. _"It still is." _I can assure you our position is just as strong as it ever was. How long ago did I say that? Was it only last night?_

"I've been through the dossier with Richard Dolby. Alexander Borkhovin is mentioned. Maria Korachevsky is mentioned. All your communication with the FSB is documented."

"Sir." Harry wanted so much to stand and look Blake in the eye, but he knew he wouldn't stand for long. So he sat, looking up, trying to catch his breath. He knew how he sounded, he sounded weak, desperate, and guilty, but he felt he must convince him. "You have to understand this is an orchestrated attack on me and my network. A network that ... that still protects us and will still allow us to call Russia's bluff."

"It's time for you to give up those names." It was an order. A direct order from the Home Secretary.

Harry's vision was starting to cloud. _No, this can't be happening. I've lost my family, I've lost Ruth. All gone, because of my job, my duty to my country and to this man. I have to make him understand_. "Home Secretary, I would never betray this country, you know that. I have given ... my life, I have given... everything I have, in its service."

"And you were very good, Harry. I trusted you completely." Blake wouldn't sit, but he leant forward on the back of the chair in front of him. "And I'll never forgive you for the damage your actions have inflicted."

The words hit Harry with the force of a blow to the chest. He felt not only his hands, but his arms shaking now, and he gripped his knees to try and stop the trembling that he knew Nicholas Blake could see. Harry felt broken, lost, and completely alone, and now, to his horror, he felt tears welling in his eyes, and he was powerless to stop them. What he felt a need to do, and what he fought with every fibre of his being, was to lay his head on the table in front of him and allow the excruciatingly powerful emotion to exit his body. To cry, to sob, to release.

But on sheer instinct and without clear thought, Harry kept his eyes focused squarely on Nicholas Blake's as the Home Secretary spoke. Harry heard the disgust, the acid in the voice of the man he had thought of not only as a colleague, but as a friend. Every word stung as if a whip was meeting his skin, tender, raw. "So, when this is over, you will be stripped of everything, do you understand? The knighthood, the pension. You will die in the most obscure and impoverished ignominy that we are capable of heaping on anyone."

Harry listened, but finally, he had to lower his eyes from the torment of what Blake was saying. "The only thing you can possibly salvage is your self-respect. So, if you have an atom of that left, you will give us those names. At the very least we can save those involved and make this a fair fight with Russia." The tears were truly threatening now, and Harry wasn't sure he cared. _Nothing. It's all been for nothing. Everything I've lost has been for nothing._

Blake straightened, and said with absolute finality, "Goodbye, Harry." He turned without another word, and walked out of the door.

_Nothing. That's what I have left. Nothing. _His head was still down, and now, mercifully, the tears seemed to retreat, as an unspeakable emptiness descended upon him. Harry suddenly found he was wishing the drugs were still in his body, because Ruth would be here. She would sit across the table from him and take his hand, just as she had at the restaurant in Bath. Her hand would stroke his, and somehow she would let him know that everything would be alright.

_I'm sorry, Ruth. I'm so sorry_. Why hadn't he gone to her, all those times, all those nights he'd sat on the couch with the girls, dreaming of flights to Cyprus? Now, he would go, and he would hope against hope that she was there and would still have him. Right now, in this room, Ruth was all that mattered to Harry. Not the job, not the Russians, not the safety of the whole bloody world, but Ruth. His Ruth. _My dearest love, my wife. My Ruth._

Harry promised himself that if he had another chance with her, he wouldn't make the same mistake as he had with Jane and Graham and Catherine. He would change. He would value the gift he had been given, and he would love Ruth in the way that every cell in his body was crying out to do now. He had given up their wedding for the knighthood that had meant nothing to him, and now he'd been told it was being taken from him. _Nothing left_. He'd given up so much. And now, this job, this _thing_ that had been so important was just so much dust running through his fingers.

Then, just as Harry thought he was truly lost, the music returned. It rose softly at first, then stronger, until it seemed to fill the now-quiet room. Charles Grady stood off to the side, revelling silently in what Harry assumed he was seeing as his final victory. Grady had played his part well, orchestrating a combination of drugs and mental anguish, finishing with the ultimate degradation of the Home Secretary's disavowal. But Charles Grady hadn't taken the music into account, and more importantly, he hadn't known about Ruth.

Slowly, Harry began to pull himself back to sanity. On some level, he knew that in order to fulfil the promises he was now making to Ruth and to himself, he had to get out of this room. Harry knew what would come next. He would have to give names. He'd been given an order by the Home Secretary, and yes, Harry would give Charles Grady names.

But the names were still his only bargaining chip, and now the music recalled the thought he'd had last night, sitting in his study. _Renaissance_. The operation that he assumed had been the beginning of Connie's betrayal, where she had been turned. He couldn't come right out and tell Ros. Although he knew where all the cameras were located in the room, he had no idea who was presently watching him. Richard Dolby came to mind, and considering their thirty-year relationship, Connie could be another. He wouldn't give them a head-start on this information.

So he had to trust that he could let Ros know, whilst not tipping off anyone who could be listening. Ros was a very smart and intuitive woman, and she knew Harry well. She would have to know that he would never have done this. She would have to understand. He was counting on her to understand.

Charles Grady sat down across from him at the table. His voice held a peculiar combination of weariness and triumph. "Let's go home."

Harry's eyes were still glistening from the tears that had never fallen. He looked directly at Charles, and heard the slaves voices reach crescendo, as he spoke. "Before I give you anything, I want to speak to Ros Myers. I want my team to know why I acted the way I did."

* * *

Ruth opened her eyes and squinted into the sun. She thought she'd been sitting on the rock wall for a long time, remembering. Without meaning to, she'd gone through almost the entire last weekend with Harry at his house, recalling every touch, every word that she could. She realised that she'd been trying to find him somehow by connecting with him this way. She wanted to be sure he was safe. She didn't know whether she had accomplished that, but she knew she felt better. As if she'd read a wonderful book, and had lived in that reality for a time.

She hopped off the wall and picked up her sandals. The sand was warmer now, and Ruth felt a tingle on her legs from the strong rays of the sun. Idly, she wondered if she might have gotten a slight burn from sitting so long without any lotion. Ruth stepped off of the sand and onto the cobblestones, and began to make her way back to Tarasio's stall to retrieve her packages.

Ruth had a curious moment of déjà vu as she passed three young men walking toward the sea. With a growing sense of discomfort, she realised that they were the ones George had rescued her from so long ago. They were slightly older, and the youngest had grown to a size more like the other two. She looked away, but she felt their eyes on her as they passed, and heard them whispering excitedly once they were behind her.

What Ruth didn't see was the sharp turn the three made, away from the sea. They were going to find the two men who had offered them money for any more information about the English woman. They were laughing, and thinking that this was going to be a very good weekend for drinking at the club.

* * *

Ros watched as Harry struggled to stand as she walked in. Always the gentleman, she thought, although she felt she wanted to help him back to his seat. Ros was certainly no stranger to hard interrogation, but the shock of seeing Harry Pearce in this condition registered immediately on her face.

"Hello, Ros," he said, wavering a bit on his feet.

Ros immediately felt the heat in the room, like midsummer heat. She turned to Charles Grady and said archly, "Can you at least give him a glass of water?"

Grady stood with his arms folded. "I'm afraid not."

The look she gave Charles Grady managed to give even him a moment of pause. But then she turned to Harry and walked over to the table to sit with him. He'd asked to see her, and she was anxious to hear him say that he was innocent of all this nonsense. Harry waited until she began to sit down, before he fell unsteadily into his own chair.

Ros wanted to say he looked like hell, but instead she said softly, "None of this is true, is it?"

Harry was looking at her strangely. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but it didn't seem to be simply the result of what he'd been through. The only way she could describe it to herself was that it was as if he was playing a part, acting as if he was someone else, as if he was reading words that someone else had written down for him. "I'm afraid it is. I've betrayed you and the entire team. I gave the names of my Sugarhorse assets to the FSB."

Although she couldn't quite believe them, Harry's words shook Ros to her core. He was telling her that he was not the man she'd known, and he was telling her with virtually no emotion. "I can understand how you must feel, but in mitigation, my priority has been the Renaissance..._Renaissance_ of something I believe in, profoundly." Harry looked directly into her eyes, and now she saw something flicker there. She didn't know what it was, but it was something.

Harry looked away from her, down to his lap, in what seemed an act of contrition. "I'm very sorry, Ros."

She continued to look at him, waiting for something, anything, from him. She nearly expected he would look up, smiling, and make a joke of some kind, but he kept his eyes down. He had asked her down here for this? For a confession that told her that everything she had ever believed to be true of Harry Pearce was a lie?

As the time passed and he made no move to explain himself, Ros realised that he was going to say no more to her. She was so saddened by what she was seeing and hearing that she actually felt the sting of tears begin. The last thing she wanted was to cry in this place, in front of this Harry, this man she didn't know.

Ros turned to Charles Grady, and said simply, "Can you let me out now?"

Harry didn't look up until she had left the room. When Charles Grady walked over to the table and handed him a pencil and paper, Harry began to write the names, quickly, and with purpose. They were Russian names, to be sure, but they weren't the names of Sugarhorse assets. He'd been formulating the list in his head ever since he began to come down from Grady's drugs.

What he wrote was a list of the names of high-level Russian civil servants that were known to be working for the FSB. They were the thorns in Harry's side.

It was Harry Pearce's own personal wish-list of Russian enemies to be eliminated.

* * *

Ros couldn't believe it. Literally couldn't believe it. Harry Pearce an FSB mole? She stood in the lift and shook her head, though no one was there to see her do it. It wasn't possible, and if it wasn't possible, why had she been summoned to see him?

She stepped out of the lift and walked back onto the Grid. Malcolm looked up and saw in her face a combination of disbelief and distraction as she closed her eyes and tried to puzzle it out.

"Ros? How's Harry? Did he say anything?"

Ros opened her eyes. _What did he say? What did he say that might mean something? Ah, yes. The word he had emphasised, had even said twice. Renaissance. _Ros looked at Malcolm, and said quietly, "Renaissance. Come."

Malcolm stood and followed her as she walked swiftly to Harry's office. As soon as they were through the door, Ros said, "Pull up everything you can, related to the codename Renaissance."

Grateful that Harry hadn't yet changed his password although Malcolm had repeatedly counselled him to, Malcolm went through only a few keystrokes before the electronic dossier appeared on the screen. "Renaissance," he told Ros. "It's a retired operation. Run by Harry during the 1980's. It's object was to persuade the KGB that they had a mole inside MI5."

Ros' stood watching coolly, although her heart was beating faster. "Who was the officer used to dupe them?"

Malcolm read silently down the file, and then got to the piece of information Ros was looking for. "Connie James. Traitor."

Richard Dolby came up behind Ros. "It doesn't matter what you try. I've got the names of Harry's assets, and I've already passed them on to a trustworthy officer. Within twenty minutes they'll all be on their way to tell us what they know."

Ros finally had the chance to say what she'd been wanting to say since she first set eyes on Richard Dolby. "You are a fool. I know why Harry wanted to see me. Connie James was turned during Operation Renaissance."

And at that very moment, Connie was on the roof, talking with Bernard Qualtrough in Moscow. She was nearing the end of the list of names that Richard Dolby had given her.

"Ilya Silvashko," she said without emotion, knowing that every name she read belonged to a person who was receiving a death sentence.

Bernard sounded surprised, as took down the names. "The Undersecretary for Arms Procurement."

Connie finished up the list. "Misha Sormonov. Porto Bloch."

Taken aback again, Bernard said, "The Kremlin's Head of Internal Security. You and I never thought Sugarhorse could have corrupted him. But don't worry, he'll soon find out his part in all this is over."

Connie folded the piece of paper into her pocket, where it now rested with the sign-out sheet that Ben had found. "What about me?" she asked Bernard.

Bernard spoke grandly. "When you reach Moscow, you can expect the full gratitude of the Motherland. Thanks to you, Russia can finally fulfil its destiny to stop and turn back the spread of American imperialism."

"_Do svidanya_, Bernard."

"_Do svidanya_, Connie. Come home."

Connie hurried downstairs and stepped back onto the Grid with her mobile to her ear. She was talking to her London FSB contact. "Call for the car, I need to get out of here. Get the driver to leave the ID in Locker 416. I'll contact you when I get out through airport security."

Quickly, she grabbed her purse and walked toward the exit. Suddenly, she looked to her right, where Ros stood, looking particularly icy.

"Step away from the pods," Ros said.

Connie took a step back, and gave her best approximation of a pleasant smile. "Is there anything wrong?"

"Operation Renaissance." Ros actually managed to give Connie a bit of a smile back, although it was of the sardonic variety. "That's where they turned you, isn't it? You and Harry working to persuade the Russians they had a mole. He came back from Moscow the same." Ros lifted a hand and snapped her fingers. "You didn't."

Connie heard footsteps from behind Ros, although she couldn't see to whom they belonged. _Oh, well, so it's over, but in any case_, Connie thought, _Sugarhorse has been blown wide open_. She gave Ros a self-satisfied look. "You realise it's too late, I've already sent the names?"

Now from behind Ros came a voice. Harry Pearce's voice. "Not the right names, I'm afraid. Names I gave to Richard because I knew you'd be working hard to get him to trust you." Ros stepped aside, and there he was. Connie knew he'd been in interrogation for nearly twenty hours. He looked tired, but he was dressed in a crisp white shirt, suit and tie. And with a look that Connie could only describe as filled with revulsion.

She remembered his apology, as she had stood in his doorway just yesterday. It had been the only moment that had given her the slightest regret. They might be on different sides, but Connie and Harry had quite a lot of history, and she knew that he offered apologies sparingly, if at all. She looked into his face and took a deep breath. His feelings for her were etched there, not only from the last twenty hours, but from the last twenty years.

Connie could only manage an arch tilt of the head and a slightly playful tone. "Almost made it."

"Almost," Harry replied with a decided absence of playfulness.

She didn't even know where it came from, but Connie felt something well up in her, an anger, a repugnance of these small people and their small ideas. And the smallest of them all was the self-righteously superior Sir Harry Pearce, who now stood in front of her. Connie put her teeth together and let her vitriol spew as a snake would, as the Devil himself would, in a long and evil hiss.

Harry was unmoved. He'd seen worse. But he did need to ask her one question, the one that had been nagging at him through all of the long hours in the cement room below them. "Why? Why did you do it?"

"I don't have to explain my actions..." Connie started to say.

Harry cut her off, his tone ominous, low. "Yes, you do. To me." After what he'd been through, and with the knowledge that he would probably never be the same, Harry felt she owed him any number of explanations.

Connie nearly spat her answer at him. "I did what I thought was right. We're a pathetic little country. Putting a fig leaf of British democracy over the actions of a monster."

Jo stepped forward, still broken-hearted from the vision of Ben lying in his own blood on the floor of the Archive Room where they had found him less than an hour ago. "What about Ben?" she asked Connie.

"I had no choice." Connie turned and said it to Jo, but then quickly returned her eyes to Harry. His was the reaction she wanted to see, and his eyes were still focused, boring into her. In a sense, Connie had waited many years for this, the moment of truth. The moment when Harry realised that he was no longer the still point of the turning world. That the world had gone and left him behind. That he was a dinosaur, antiquated, obsolete.

Jo now crossed the room to Connie, her voice rising. "You had a choice." Connie refused to look at Jo. Her eyes were on Harry, absorbing the sight of him, relishing what she saw there. She saw that Harry knew his time in this new world of spies was coming to an end, just as hers was.

Jo was still speaking, "Connie. He was worth more than that."

Finally, Harry spoke. "Get her out of my sight." His only consolation was that she was headed for the very hell he'd just left. He watched until she was safely off the Grid, and then he turned to go to his office.

Ros followed Harry down the hall to his door. "I'm assuming none of this makes any difference to immediate American plans for missile defence?"

Harry shook his head. "None whatsoever. We remain at a state of heightened alert, ready for imminent Russian reprisals."

Ros handed Harry a sheet of paper. "Then we need to deal with this. Using your password, we were reassuring Sugarhorse assets. One of them sent this back."

Harry read what was written there. "Beware, Tiresias wakes, three p.m. tomorrow." He looked up at Ros. "What the hell is Tiresias?"

Ros sighed. "We don't know yet. But Lucas is on his way back from Moscow, and he's bringing a film canister from Maria Korachevsky. We hope we'll know more once we've had a chance to analyse it."

Harry nodded. "Stay on it. And let me know as soon as Lucas arrives."

Ros walked back down the hall, and Harry closed his door against the noise of the Grid. His light was off, and the murky shadows allowed him the privacy to lean his forehead against the door and close his eyes for a moment. He still hadn't slept, and he almost felt as if he could doze off right here, standing up. The change of clothes he always kept in his office had been brought down to him so that he could face Connie with dignity, but he hadn't showered or eaten yet. Harry was as exhausted as he'd ever been in his life.

_I'm getting too old for this_.

With his eyes closed and his head still against the door, Harry said a heartfelt thank you to Maria. He'd only learned of her death moments before he'd confronted Connie, and he was still reeling a bit. They'd been apart for nearly twenty years, but he could still see her face clearly. He could only hope that Lucas had been able to deliver his message to her, and that she hadn't remembered him too harshly at the end.

Harry walked over to his cabinet and pulled the bottle of Ardbeg from the lower shelf. The irony was not lost on him that the last time he'd poured from this bottle, it had been to offer a drink to Connie. He poured it now because he needed it more than he could ever remember, except perhaps on the night he'd waited here for news of Ruth after she'd been taken by Yalta.

_Ruth_. Harry fell heavily into his chair. He sat in the dark and took a long swallow as he watched the activity on the Grid. Ruth had been with him every minute he'd been in the interrogation room, for the greater part of it as a steadfast, trusting, and loving presence that had given him the strength he needed to hold his confidence and retain his sanity.

He'd made a promise to her, and he intended to keep it. One more day, after he'd slept and could think clearly. Tomorrow, after three p.m., after this Tiresias business, whatever it was, had been dispensed with, Harry would take Ros aside and give her his codes. He would force Malcolm to give him the information about Ruth, he would pack up the girls, and Harry Pearce would fly to Cyprus.

He wasn't worried about Ruth's safety any longer, because he would take her somewhere safe. They would find a beach and he would marry her, a real marriage this time.

She would wear the white flowing dress and the flowers in her hair, and Harry would never let go of his Ruth again.


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT**

* * *

Harry pulled the key from the lock in his new front door, and released a long, exhausted sigh. He was grateful to Ros for sending someone round this morning to close up his house after CO-19 had made such a disaster of it. Workmen had roughly boarded up the windows in the study upstairs, then replaced the front and back doors and reset the alarm. Tonight, Ros had handed him a set of keys as he walked toward the pods to come home. He'd thanked her, and then said, softly, "And Scarlet? The cats?" Ros had winced a bit, and responded with a rueful shake of the head. She didn't have pets, and it hadn't even occurred to her.

He laid a hand on Ros' arm, and gave her an appreciative half smile. "I'm sure they're fine. Thank you for doing what you did. It means a great deal to me." Ros hadn't wavered in the last twenty -four hours, and Harry now felt that, acutely. He added, "Not just for my house, Ros."

Ros smiled too. "You're welcome, Harry." Then, the depth of the moment embarrassed her slightly, and she said, gruffly, "Get some sleep."

As Harry opened the door, he wasn't worried in the slightest about Fidget and Phoebe, independent as those girls were. In fact, he'd barely come into the hall when they leapt downstairs and began to rub back and forth on his legs, obviously none the worse for wear.

But he had been a bit worried for Scarlet. He'd tried to imagine her confusion and panic in the face of CO-19 running through the house, breaking down doors, and clambering up the stairs. And then today, more strangers hammering, drilling, and shouting. But Harry knew that Scarlet could be quite resourceful when she needed to be, and he also knew she was very good at hiding, as he'd discovered on more than one occasion. Harry allowed a tired smile to curl his lips as he remembered crawling round his house on hands and knees the last time he'd tried to get her to the vet's.

He heard a small whimper coming from the lounge, and turned. He went over to the sofa, calling softly, "Scarlet. It's only me. Come on out, girl." He bent down and peered underneath the sofa to find two narrowed, black eyes looking suspiciously at him. Shivering and terrified, Scarlet poked her nose from under the sofa. Harry put his hand toward her and let her sniff. Little by little, she inched out. "It's me, girl. Just me. That's it. Just me ... "

She looked hungry and slightly distraught, and was still shaking quite markedly, so Harry picked her up and held her close. He took her into the kitchen to her food and water, and saw that they were still virtually untouched from when he'd set them out last night. He picked up her bowl and placed it on the kitchen table, allowing her a forbidden perch in the very spot where he usually ate his own dinner, and he watched her eat ravenously. Suddenly, Harry's heart opened wide, and it all came tumbling down on him. His eyes began to mist and then filled, and he laid his head heavily onto his arm on the table.

Harry had never gone much for therapy, and now he knew for certain why he'd chosen to avoid it. He hadn't been touched whilst he was being interrogated, but his body felt sore, as if his muscles had been tensed, on high alert, for twenty hours. His insides felt just as battered. For nearly the entire time he'd been in the basement room, his own regret, shame, and guilt had rattled around in his chest cavity, pummelling his heart and pushing the breath from his lungs, making him almost physically ill.

He'd had so many choices in his life, and in that room with Charles Grady, those choices seemed to have lined up, each and every one of them, and asked him, "Why?" Finally, he'd found himself simply shaking his head, defeated, answering each one in turn, "I don't know." And the last choice, the one that tormented him more than any other, was Ruth. "Why?" she asked, "Why didn't you come to me?"

The simple answer was that he'd had a responsibility, a job to do. The difficult answer was that he'd been afraid. Afraid that a life outside of the Services wouldn't be enough. Afraid that once he was no longer defined by his position as Head of Section D, he might dry up, disappear, cease to be.

And now, after this long night and day of being forced to confront himself, Harry knew that the job didn't quite return the favour. How quickly had they believed in his treachery? How paper-thin was their loyalty? Not his team on the Grid, but Dolby, and in particular, Nicholas Blake, whom he thought would be less open than most to being swayed. Even Charles Grady, who had been only a footnote in Harry's life until today, had fully bought into Harry Pearce as a traitor. It was too easily done, this setup. They had given up on him far too effortlessly, and much too fast.

But through the terrors of the drug, Ruth had been there. The paradox was that here in London, Harry felt he'd planted his faith in shifting sand, but there, far away on Cyprus, Ruth was his rock.

Harry knew he wasn't thinking entirely clearly, and he wondered how he would feel in the morning, after sleep had given him more clarity. Somehow, he thought it would be the same in the bright light of day as it was right now. Certainly he would have nerves at the idea of leaving the work he'd done for so long, the job that had been so much a part of his life. But aside from the joy of finally being with his Ruth, Harry thought he might feel a sort of elation at leaping into the unknown.

He hedged his bets by thinking that after it was all said and done, perhaps he wouldn't have to leave it completely behind. _But_, he thought, _first things first_. He would find Ruth and get them settled, and take it from there. He couldn't seem to manage a plan beyond that.

Scarlet finished eating, and now, in her bliss at having Harry back, she lowered all her defences and let go into her exhaustion, just as Harry had. She fell forward onto her front paws and put her nose down, peering at him. Harry gave her a rub behind her ears, and said, gently, "We've both been up all night, haven't we? You'd like a little walk out back, and then, what do you say we go to bed?"

He picked her up off the table and set her on the floor, and then put her food and water back in their place. "Tomorrow will look better, won't it, girl? You're going to take your first ride in an aeroplane!" Scarlet's tail began to wag at his tone, as if she understood. "You'll like that? Yes, of course you will."

Harry opened his new back door and walked out with Scarlet, who paused for a moment. Then she bravely, but cautiously, ventured out to inspect the shrubbery. It was a cool night, and the moon was just waning from full, although it was bright in the black London sky.

As he always did when he looked at the moon, Harry thought of Ruth. It had been nearly a year since he'd said goodbye to her in Dover, and Harry wondered about so many things. He would talk to Malcolm tomorrow to get all the information he could in order to find her, and then he would send a short email by way of Martin Wingate's account to let her know he was coming. If she'd left Cyprus, he would track her down. If she was still on the island, as he so ardently hoped she was, he would simply tell her that he'd finally come to his senses, and that he loved her more deeply than he thought was possible.

Of course, Harry knew there was a chance that she'd found someone else, but he couldn't allow that to intrude on his thoughts or diminish his hope right now. He would deal with the situation as it presented itself. He could only hope that she would forgive him, and if all went well, they would be on their way tomorrow night, their three girls in tow, heading toward a new life.

And in the glow of that thought, as he looked up at the moon, Harry wondered if his beloved, psychic Ruth knew how drastically her life was going to change tomorrow. He hoped that somewhere in her heart, the heart he loved so dearly, she did.

* * *

Ruth's cheeks had a trace of the blue glow from the computer screen, as she navigated to the _l'Alcove_ server. She'd been mulling over the thought of sending a message to Isabelle, thanking her for getting in touch, and she'd finally determined that it wouldn't put Isabelle in danger. Ruth gave herself the reason of wanting to send thanks to Isabelle, but in truth, Ruth was feeling an emptiness of heart, a need for the contact. And of course, whilst she was transferring the email into the drafts folder, she would be able to check the server again for any word from Malcolm. Or Harry.

Suddenly the light blazed on in the small office, and Ruth started and blinked. George stood in the doorway. "Why do you insist upon doing that to your eyes?" Outwardly, he said it good-naturedly, but there was an edge in his voice that Ruth heard nearly all the time now. An impatience, a discontent, a dissatisfaction with the way she did almost everything.

She looked up at him, and gave a half-hearted smile as she shrugged. "It doesn't bother me. I don't think about it."

George pursed his lips slightly. "Well, you ought to think about it. It's not good for you." He stood there as she stared at him, and Ruth wondered how obvious it would be to close the window to _l'Alcove_.

When he asked what she did at the computer each night, she'd told him she was organising recipes, and she had copied quite a few of them from cooking sites, so it was partially true. But if he were to walk behind her right now, she would have to click the window closed, and she would see the suspicion in his eyes. One night, when she'd abruptly closed an article on MI5 in _The Times_, he had simply turned on his heel and said coldly, "I'll leave you to your secrets."

Now, as George stood in the doorway, the thought of his anger that night brought a slight blush into Ruth's cheeks, and she felt the heat rise in her face. She hoped he hadn't noticed, but as his lips tightened, she could see that he had. She smiled, and tried to sound playful. "Will you be awake for awhile? I'll be up in just a minute?" Ruth despised herself for using sex to mollify him, but she knew it was exactly what she was doing. It had been five days since they'd last made love, and she'd used the excuse of being tired as many times as she dared.

George's face softened, and he matched her teasing tone. "I could be awake." He smiled at her, and she knew the danger had passed.

"Good." She waved him away. "Then, go, and let me finish my recipe. I have Christina's cooking to live up to, you know."

"You cook very well, Ruth. Don't worry." He still wasn't leaving, so she tilted her head at him in mock exasperation. He laughed, and said, "Alright, I'm going!" As he left the office, he turned to her one more time, and said softly, "Don't be long, eh?"

"I won't." Ruth already had her head turned back to the screen, and she waited until she heard his footsteps on the stairs before she allowed herself to close her eyes and release a sigh. _How long can I do this?_ The answer came back to her so quickly that her eyes flew open_. Not forever. _And Ruth realised that already, in some corner of her being, she was longing for escape.

_But they're my family now. My family_. Ruth heard the words as they came so often from Christina's lips. _Bring your family for dinner tonight_. The people in town asking, _How is your family?_ As she was growing up, how often Ruth had longed for a real family. She'd wished for a house like this one, a husband who would care for her, and who would be as steady and responsible as George was. Now she had it all, and she could hardly breathe.

What made Ruth feel so guilty was that it wasn't their fault. The secret life that she carried around inside her was unknown to all of them. It informed her feelings, her reactions, what she said, and how she responded to the love that was offered to her. They couldn't know that Harry was inside her, a part of her, and impossible to compete with. They couldn't know. They never would.

When she'd laid in her bed as a young girl, counting the cabbage roses on her wallpaper, she'd had no idea of the complexities of relationships. How a man like Harry could be so compelling in his unavailability, and how one like George could be so suffocating in his love. But most of all, how she could be torn so completely in two, on one hand by what she wanted, and on the other by what she needed.

Ruth looked again at the screen. _No new messages_. She closed the _l'Alcove_ window and shut down the computer. _I won't write to Isabelle tonight. Maybe tomorrow night_. She would ask Isabelle to tell her again about Pierre, about the year they spent apart, and how she'd never wavered in her love for him. Isabelle had always made Ruth feel better, and although it had been nearly a year since she'd seen her, Ruth's lovely Parisian friend was never far from her thoughts.

Ruth sighed again. _I've been sighing a lot lately_, she thought. She knew she had to make a decision if this was to be her life. It wasn't fair to anyone for her to sit on the fence as she was. She shut off the light in the office and walked out to the porch. She would go upstairs and make love with George, and yes, she would think of Harry, as she always did. She would compare, as she always did. And then she would remind herself that she was a very lucky woman, as she always did.

And Ruth vowed again that she would do her best to love George Constantinou. She would give it time. And if, after a time, she simply couldn't bring herself to love him, then she would go. Where, she didn't know, but she would make a decision. Not tomorrow, not next week, and probably not even next month. But she knew she couldn't stay forever, not like this. She'd tried so hard, and she was frankly exhausted with trying. Feeling love for Harry had been easy, like breathing. Even through the pain of missing him and the anger at his abandonment, it was still like breathing.

Before she went upstairs, she took one last look at the moon, not only bright in the sky, but reaching its sparkling white tendril across the sea. Ruth looked off to the trees, far away on the peninsula, that protected the Bath of Aphrodite. She closed her eyes and asked for guidance.

Ruth knew in her heart that something had to change, so that's what she asked for. She begged Aphrodite to bring change.

* * *

Walter Crane had a routine that never varied. With some people that statement would be an exaggeration, but with Walter, it was the unvarnished truth.

Every morning, his alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. He would climb from his bed, turn on his shortwave radio, and go to the kitchen to start the coffee. As it brewed, he would get back into bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking, listening to the snippets of music, the numbers, and the random words in Russian that always came from the radio.

It was a sort of meditation, brought on by the meaninglessness white noise of the combinations. He had been listening since September 26, 1986. Every day, without fail.

When Walter heard the bubbling finally stop in the kettle, he would stand, put on his watch, and go to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. Then he would prepare one scrambled egg, half an apple, and one piece of wheat toast with orange marmalade, which he would eat alone in his single chair at his metal folding table, still listening.

After he finished his breakfast dishes, he would make his lunch, and then shower and dress. On weekdays, Walter would walk the nine blocks to his teaching position and to his students in six classes of "Russian for Adults, Beginners Level Preparation." On week-ends, he would walk to the park, or to the shops, or perhaps to a museum. Then, each day, he would walk home, turn on the shortwave radio and listen as he prepared and ate his dinner. At 9:30 p.m., he would turn off the radio, climb back into bed, and fall into a peaceful and untroubled sleep.

To say that today would be a different sort of day for Walter Crane was an understatement of monumental proportions.

He poured his coffee and turned to begin his breakfast, and over the shortwave, he heard, _"Dozhdʹ s nebes." Rain from heaven._ Walter froze in place, and his brain seemed suddenly to lose command over his muscles. The coffee cup fell from his hand, shattering spectacularly across his spotless kitchen floor. What was left of last night's dinner lurched with frightening speed from his stomach, and Walter had barely enough time to reach the sink before vomiting repeatedly, uncontrollably. _Rain from heaven. .2.5. Finland red Egypt white. It is twice blest._

Without warning, Walter Crane's mind was flooded with an understanding of who he was and what he was doing here. For twenty-two years, he'd been walking through a dream, and now, he awakened. _Rain from heaven. .2.5. Finland red Egypt white. It is twice blest._ The randomness of what he usually heard spoken on the shortwave radio turned suddenly into uncomplicated clarity, and Walter Crane knew what he must do. He knew his purpose. It was as if the world suddenly came into focus, its edges no longer blurred. Everything was sharp, luminous, precise.

Walter washed out the sink, and then splashed his face and rinsed out his mouth. He carefully plucked the shards of ceramic from the pool of coffee on the floor, and mopped it until it was just as it had been. His stomach had settled, so Walter poured himself another cup of coffee, and started his breakfast. He would need his strength for what he had to do.

There was no real hurry, as he had until three o'clock to complete his task. Walter knew he would be teaching no Russian classes today. He also knew that at a little after three o'clock this afternoon, every one of his students might be dead. Walter knew he certainly would be. Today was the day he would fulfil his purpose. Every puzzle piece had fallen firmly into place, and although Walter Crane would die today, at least he finally knew who he was.

* * *

Harry felt like a new man. He'd had seven hours of sleep and had awakened rested and ready to get through this one last operation. He had a small bag packed and had closed up the cat flap so that he could run home at any moment, bundle up the girls, and get on his way. He'd determined that it would take two quick meetings and two telephone calls to sever his ties with London. And Harry thought, _That, in itself, is telling, isn't it?_

The meetings? With Malcolm and Ros. The telephone calls? To the Home Secretary and to the Quinns. Tom and Christine had been good friends. They deserved a goodbye, and he knew they would be pleased with his decision. He'd also composed his resignation letter, which he would send to Nicholas Blake after he spoke with him.

In fact, Harry was feeling so optimistic this morning, that he was thinking he might just get to the Grid and find that Tiresias had turned out to be a non-issue. A cryptic message from a Sugarhorse asset, saying, "Tiresias wakes at 3:00 p.m." That could be anything, couldn't it?

When he arrived on the Grid, Lucas was poring over the microfilm that had been in the canister Maria had given him. Harry came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Anything?"

Lucas barely looked up, saying, "It's written in an obscure dialect, but I'm getting it. I'll let you know when I have it completely translated."

"Good," Harry said, and started toward his office.

Now Lucas did look up. "Harry?"

Harry turned and raised his eyebrows, "Yes?"

Lucas frowned. "I'm sorry about Maria. I should have stayed with her."

Walking back a few steps, Harry said, shaking his head, "You followed my orders to the letter. It wasn't your fault, Lucas." Harry sighed. "She always knew the danger." He started to turn again.

"You were right, Harry." Harry looked back at Lucas, waiting. Lucas said softly, "She was a formidable woman. I know I was only with her for a short time, but ... I ... liked her very much."

After a pause, Harry said, "So did I. Very much." Harry gave Lucas a half smile. "And I'm grateful that yours was the last friendly face she saw. Thank you for what you did."

Lucas nodded, and then looked back down at his magnifier. He spoke not to Harry, but to the film in his hands, and his voice had a slight huskiness. "I'll let you know when I've finished the translation."

Harry smiled, remembering Maria's extraordinary ability to impress people and to draw them in. He went into his office, hung up his coat and sat behind his desk. He turned on his computer, and was again glad of Malcolm's instruction on how to clear his browser of any trace of his activities. He typed in "Paris to Cyprus" to begin finding flights, and wrote down the available times. He would know better which one he should take once he got to Paris.

He was very close to calling Isabelle, but decided against it. No need to complicate this further, and although it would be good to talk with her, he really didn't want to involve anyone else. Perhaps later, after he and Ruth were settled, they could let her know.

After going through some files he needed to shred, Harry suddenly remembered something, and reached over to lift up his mouse mat. The piece of paper was worn from use over the past year, but it still held the same emotional impact for him. _"NO. If you love her. NO."_ Harry gazed out at the Grid to see if anyone was watching, and then he held the paper in his lap and looked at it for a long time.

Finally, with purpose, and with an enigmatic smile on his face, Harry tore the piece of paper into tiny bits and tossed it in the bin with the rubbish.

There was only one more thing to do. Harry turned his computer screen slightly so that it faced away from the Grid, and he began to type.

_My dearest Ruth,_

_I can only hope that this doesn't come too late, and that you still love me._

_I sit here with my hands on the keyboard trying to think of what to say to explain the silence of this long and painful year, and nothing materialises. The only thing I can tell you is that every moment I've not gotten on a plane, every time I've not sent a letter or picked up the phone, was a moment that I loved you completely. And there have been many, many thousands of those moments._

_Later today or tonight, I'm getting on a plane to come to you. If you're still there, and if you'll allow me to, I'll take you in my arms and beg you to forgive me. I'll tell you that the thread between us has never broken, and I'll try to convince you that I've felt I was doing the right thing by leaving you alone. Then it will be up to you. _

_Please be there. Malcolm will tell me what he knows, so please be where I can find you. You've not been out of my thoughts since the moment I kissed you goodbye in Dover. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life showing you exactly how much, my Ruth._

_My Ruth. My dream is that you are still my Ruth._

_Harry_

There was a knock at his door, and Harry looked up, suddenly jolted into the present. He saved the draft, and closed the window. "Come."

Lucas put copies of the translation on Harry's desk. "We have a serious problem."

Harry pointed to the Russian word at the top of the page. "What's this?"

"Tiresias." By the look on Lucas' face, Harry thought Tiresias might be an issue after all. He read the file quickly with a dread beginning in his stomach, his heart sinking. _No, not this. Not now. _

Harry looked up. Lucas might have thought the profound sadness he saw on Harry's face was a result of the file that sat on the desk between them, but it went much deeper than that. Harry said, softly, "Have copies made of these, and call the team together."

In fifteen minutes, Harry stood on the Grid with Ros, Jo and Malcolm as Lucas handed a report to each of them, still warm from the copier.

Once they were settled, Harry began. "Sugarhorse is an MI5 operation in place for twenty years. It was designed to warn us of any forthcoming Russian attack on Britain. We've just ascertained that the Russians have an equivalent operation and it's bigger, and better. For perhaps twenty-five years, the Kremlin has had a network of sleepers, high-level assets in place throughout the United Kingdom. The Russians call this Operation Tiresias."

Ros looked up from the report. "Tiresias wakes. Exactly how big is this thing?"

Lucas couldn't seem to sit still, and he paced as he spoke. "It's everywhere. All political parties, civil service, police service, armed forces, security services, MI5 and 6."

Ros frowned, incredulous. "All of them infiltrated?"

Jo shared Ros' disbelief. "All of them? How's that possible?"

Lucas answered her. "It was there all the time. Everything we ever did, everything we gave. This was waiting for us. Operation Tiresias. Like a node of cancer biding its time."

Harry continued, "There could be hundreds of sleepers, motivated by greed, ideology, hatred, all unknown, even to each other."

Ros read from the report. "Tiresias wakes at 3 p.m. Today."

* * *

Walter Crane lifted the Mk-54 SADM from the box carefully. He was careful, because Walter knew that the American-made Special Atomic Demolition Munition held the explosive power of six kilotons of TNT. Not quite the sixteen kilotons of the Hiroshima bomb, but enough to leave a massive hole where most of Central London used to be.

Walter couldn't know that it had been stolen from an American Air Force base in Southern England in 1996. This morning, he had followed the directions he'd been given to a field just outside East Studdal, and had dug up the box that had been there since just days after it had been stolen.

He opened the briefcase in which the Mk-54 was already packed, and he set the timer for 3:00 p.m. BST. Walter dressed in his best suit and left his flat for the very last time, bound out of Faversham on a train whose destination was London. From there, he would walk to Grosvenor Square.

The weapon had been taken from the Americans, and Walter Crane was to return it to the Americans, by way of levelling their Embassy, along with the better part of London and its inhabitants.

* * *

Viktor Sarkiisian was young, but he was on his way up the ladder. The position of FSB Station Head for London was, at his age, quite a coup. His unusual appointment had been made possible by the sudden disappearance, still unexplained, of his predecessor, Arkady Kachimov. Viktor looked out at the gray water of the Royal Albert Dock from the empty building they had commandeered for their Headquarters, and, not for the first time, he said a silent thank you to whomever had so kindly caused Kachimov to fall off the face of the map.

The orders he'd received today were simple: find Connie James and either capture her for interrogation, or, if that wasn't possible, eliminate her. Viktor had been told that she'd been a useful asset for the last twenty years, but that she'd been compromised, and her usefulness was now at an end. Unfortunately, she was being held in detention by the British Security Services before being transferred to the Nemworth Interrogation Unit. Once she was moved to Nemworth, there would be no possible retrieval, so the time was now.

Viktor sipped at his coffee and looked around. They had pulled every chair and desk available on the empty floor of the office building to the middle of the room, creating a command centre of sorts. He felt capable of doing this job, and happier to be here than out in the field, where he had still been, part-time, when Kachimov had disappeared. It had been a big adjustment, but now his wife, Alina, and their two little girls were finally settled in London. He could almost see the flat from here, only a short distance from the Dock across from Mayesbrook Park. The move had been an ordeal in itself. They still missed home, but they were comfortable.

He walked over to his desk and went through the messages. The usual decoded directives from Headquarters in Moscow, although Viktor always felt that he was being told only half the story. Then on to the reports from his operatives in the field: rumours, chatter, rumblings of discontent within MI5 and MI6, GCHQ, possible areas of weakness.

One report cited a rumour that there was a very rich man who was willing to pay dearly for Sir Harry Pearce, Head of Section D, MI5. Viktor smiled. They could probably pick him up when they got Connie James, but then Viktor would have to be willing to leave his entire life here behind, if he didn't get shot first by his own superiors.

A life on the run, with a great deal of money. He threw the report back onto his desk. _Not bloody likely_.

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE**

* * *

Harry had no choice. The last person he wanted to see right now was Connie James, but he needed to enlist her help. He was still feeling deeply stung by what she had done, and how coldly she'd done it. Whenever Harry thought of that last evil hiss she had given him, he found Malcolm's words satisfyingly descriptive: _treacherous cow_.

Harry knew that Tiresias reached into all areas of Britain's civil and security services, and consequently, he had no way of knowing whom they could trust. They had to stay silent about their knowledge of the operation until they at least knew what it was, for fear of tipping off the Russians and forcing them to bring the operation forward from the 3:00 p.m. deadline.

There was only one person who could help Harry, and unfortunately, it was Connie. It was likely that Connie had set aside a wealth of valuable information about the FSB's activities in London, if only as an insurance policy against the time that her cover was finally blown. Harry needed a way inside Tiresias, and fast. Connie was their only way in.

So, Harry gave the order for Ros and Lucas to apprehend Connie as she was being transferred to Nemworth, and to make it look as if the Russians had taken her. In fact, Viktor Sarkiisian's people were planning to do just that, but they were a bit too late.

Ros and Lucas took Connie, still in the black hood they'd put over her head in the car, to the Ottawa Bravo safe house. Connie couldn't see anything, but she had a fairly good idea where she was. No one had spoken, but she also knew who her abductors were. Before the hood had gone over her eyes, she'd seen a man and a woman, both masked, but coincidentally the same heights and body types as Lucas and Ros.

As Connie sat waiting to have the hood removed, she became aware that her hands were falling asleep, strapped behind her back. As she wiggled her fingers, she heard footsteps, and there was no mistaking them. She'd certainly heard Harry Pearce stride into enough rooms in their decades of working together. The hood was lifted, and yes, there they were. Lucas, Harry and Ros.

Harry stood front and centre, and addressed her with just one word, "Tiresias."

_If he can't ask a proper question, then I'll be damned if I'll give him a proper answer_. "A seer. Condemned by Dante to spend all eternity with his head twisted round. Prophet who could only look backwards."

Harry spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm tired of the dance, Connie. What do you want?"

Connie paused for just a moment, although she'd been thinking of this ever since they'd put her in custody. "Somewhere temperate. Too much heat is intolerable. Dulls the wits. New Zealand sounds nice."

Harry's tone was right on a knife's edge of sarcasm. "I'll see what I can do."

Connie nearly cut him off. "I thought the dancing had stopped. Don't see, just do."

Ros had taken about as much as she could. She spoke softly, menacingly. "Alternatively, I could always break your fingers one by one."

Turning sharply to her, Connie said, "You don't have the balls."

In a near whisper, Ros purred, "You don't think so?"

Connie kept her eyes on Ros for a moment longer, and then looked back at Harry. "Judging by the way you snatched me, this is a black op. Which means you don't trust MI5. Which means you've grasped the scale of Tiresias, and you're very frightened. So don't be coy."

The last time Harry had seen Connie, he'd wanted nothing but to have her out of his sight. His feelings hadn't changed, so the sooner this was over, the better. He was already more angry than he could admit, even to himself, about the fact that he might need to change the plans he had nurtured so carefully since yesterday evening. But no matter how motivated he was to get to Ruth, he simply couldn't leave with Tiresias up in the air, at least until he knew what it entailed. So he kept his voice even, calm. "What do you have for us?"

Connie had everything, but first she needed to know the state of the operation. "Has Tiresias gone live?" she asked.

"We believe so," said Lucas.

Connie looked at Harry. "Then have you checked the number stations?"

Harry paused, gazing at her, and then pulled out his mobile. He quickly dialled Malcolm, and asked him about the number stations. Malcolm told him it had been years since they'd broadcast anything remotely germane. Harry asked him to check them again, and Malcolm was surprised to hear something new. _.2.5.__ Finland red Egypt white. It is twice blest. Rain from heaven_.

Now Harry knew the question to ask Connie. "What is _rain from heaven_?

Connie's immediate reaction did nothing to calm Harry's nerves. If he'd been asked to describe it, he would have to say that she looked truly terrified. She took a breath, and began. "When the KGB knew the Soviet empire was falling, it put in place certain contingencies. One of them, _rain from heaven_, involved secreting portable nuclear devices around the United Kingdom, for use in future deployment."

After a pause, Connie continued, "All they had to do was broadcast the right code to the right sleeper. _Rain from heaven_ is the "go" code for a nuclear attack on London. If the sleeper received the "go" code this morning, you have a matter of hours before tens of millions of people are annihilated."

Harry turned away for a moment. _A nuclear attack on London_. Harry thought of his optimism as he'd walked onto the Grid this morning, thinking that perhaps Tiresias would turn out to be nothing of importance. Getting to Ruth, which had been his principal goal up to this point, suddenly became less important in the face of this new information. Harry thought Ruth would understand, but as that thought crossed his mind, Charles Grady's voice intruded. _Your work has always been more important than those you love, hasn't it?_ Harry answered, silently, _But this is different. A nuclear weapon unleashed on Central London? Ruth would have to understand. _Grady's imagined face came into Harry's field of vision, shaking his head in pity. _Again, Harry, you're doing it again_.

Harry turned away from Grady, and told himself, _One last operation, and then I go_. He forced himself to listen to what Connie was saying. They had until 3:00 p.m. to defuse the bomb, and Connie had stored everything she knew in a locker at London Bridge. She would not only tell them who the _rain from heaven_ sleeper was and where he was to take the bomb, but she also promised to give them the names of every Russian sleeper in England.

It was unfortunate, however, that Connie had already passed on the locations of MI5's safe houses to the Russians, because now that information was in Viktor Sarkiisian's hands. As Harry, Connie, Lucas and Ros stepped out of the safe house to go to London Bridge, Sarkiisian's snipers were waiting for them.

It was clear that Harry had to get back to the Grid to run the operation, so they split up, barely evading the gunfire outside the safe house. Ros and Lucas took Connie toward London Bridge and Harry left Catherine Wheel Alley and headed back to Thames House. It was safer to be underground, so they all made their way toward the tube.

Harry walked quickly toward Liverpool Station for the short stretch he needed to reach cover. For a time he let his eyes stray to the rooftops, then to the people around him, and again, up to the sky. The next time he looked down, he saw it. Just over his heart, the red dot that was the sighting laser for a sniper's rifle. Without a moment's thought, Harry bent sharply as if to tie his shoe, and then he crouched behind a man walking in front of him until he was able to duck in behind a building. A few more turns, and he had lost all but one of the men following him.

Harry knew exactly where he was, and now he had an idea of what he had to do. In his current state of mind, he was going on instinct only, but Harry knew that this moment, and the decision he was making right now, would haunt him in the days and years to come. He would wonder if there had been any other way, and again, he would ask what his Ruth, his conscience, would have had him do.

But right now his primary goal was the safety of London. Beyond that, Ruth was his final destination, and if he didn't live through this day, he would never see her again. Harry felt the man behind him, gaining ground, and he slowed his steps just slightly so that he could be caught. He had no weapon with which to fight, but he had what he needed.

Harry's hands moved up to his neck, and in one swift, elegant movement, he loosened, and then removed his tie, without breaking stride. He turned sharply into a doorway and quickly re-looped the tie in his hands, creating a noose of sorts, while he lay in wait for the few seconds that elapsed before his follower came through the door .

It took only the simple movement of slipping the tie over the Russian's head, then a quick snap of the wrists. It was a singularly effective technique, as the more the man struggled, the tighter the knot became, until finally, completely without oxygen, he ceased to move. Harry retrieved his tie, and took one last look. At the man, now dead, and at this place, which would remain in his memory forever.

Another life extinguished, for the good of the realm. Another sharp stab of his conscience, another moment he would carry with him to his dying day. Harry felt sick at heart, and was more determined than ever that he would leave this world, and find his way to Ruth.

* * *

Stepping out onto the upstairs porch, Ruth fluffed her wet hair in the warm breeze. She was wearing only a towel after her shower, and the drops of water that still clung to her shoulders cooled her in the waning late-afternoon heat. She had just looked at the clock. It was nearly 4:00 p.m.

Ruth gazed down at the pool below, and knew that Nico and George couldn't see her in the shadow behind the porch wall, so she could watch them unobserved. They were throwing a brightly-coloured ball back and forth. Occasionally, the ball would go too far, and Ruth watched as Nico scrambled quickly out of the water to retrieve it and then throw it back to his father.

Ruth smiled and watched them for a time. They had no idea of the dangers that routinely threatened the serene, secure life they lived here. She remembered saying much the same thing to Harry as they lay on the grass in Bath, talking about the banker and the shopgirl.

_T__hese are the people we protect every day. They don't know how many times we've saved their cheque books and their dinners, and I guess it's better that way, really_. Harry had turned to her and said, _Preser__ve the status quo. We do our best to keep them from knowing how fragile this life is._

But she knew. And after all these months, Ruth realised that she would always know. She'd wanted to leave her life as a spook behind, but it wasn't really possible. What was known couldn't be unknown.

And Isabelle's letter entered her mind again. She had it memorised. _I hope this reaches you. A very tall man, Indian I believe, was here asking for S.P. today. I told the truth -- that you left a year ago and I do not know where you are. Be safe. I still pray to see you again._

Clearly the warning hadn't worried Malcolm or Harry, as she'd heard nothing from either of them. But Ruth couldn't seem to set it aside. It felt important to her, and although she seemed relatively safe in Polis, she knew from experience that nearly anyone can be found, given the time and energy.

As she watched Nico and George, Ruth couldn't seem to get Bath out of her head. She remembered the rest of the conversation that day, as she'd laid on her back, looking up at the blue sky and its sprinkling of clouds. Harry had said, "I love you," and she'd heard something in his voice that was vaguely frightened, lost. Her answer had been firm, uncompromising, and blindly unrealistic. _We'll be fine, Harry. We can do this. We can tell people or not tell people, whatever you like, but we can have this, I know it_.

She stood and shook her head again. This time, it wasn't to dry her hair. It was to rid herself of Harry's face, bemused, the soft smile playing at his lips, a look she still loved as much as she loved him.

* * *

Harry was pacing his office again. It had almost been better to be out in the street, being chased by snipers, than waiting on the Grid for word. Ros and Lucas were underground now, taking Connie to her locker so that she could access the location of the nuclear device. Comms didn't work where they were, and Harry had been out of touch for far too long. It was already 2:00 o'clock. _Only an hour left_.

Harry took one more turn, and then walked directly out to the Grid. "Malcolm?"

Malcolm turned to him and shrugged slightly. Jo had the phone to her ear, ringing Ros' mobile and then Lucas'. She shook her head. "Nothing yet."

"Right." Harry had clearly had enough of not knowing, and he'd been formulating a plan whilst pacing. "Well, we're not going to stand around here and wait for this to happen. The FSB came after us in numbers. Their orders were to assassinate Connie and the rest of us. Do you think they know  
what's about to happen? You think they know about _rain from heaven?"_

Jo shook her head. "An operation of this magnitude would be classified well above Top Secret."

Harry nodded. "Well above even a Station Head's security clearance. The FSB are here in London with us. They have families, people they love." He looked to Malcolm, and asked, "Can we arrange a parlez?"

"The handshake protocols change weekly."

Harry couldn't risk anyone knowing about this. "Can you access them without alerting anyone in the building?"

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Well, I shouldn't be able to."

Harry gazed at him from under his brows. "But you can."

With obvious pride, Malcolm said, "Course I can."

Jo tilted her head slightly, "What are you planning?"

Harry said, "Truth or dare. I need to have a chips-down conversation with Viktor Sarkiisian." He stood thinking for a moment, and then turned to Malcolm. "May I have a word with you in my office, please?"

If Malcolm was surprised, he didn't show it. He simply stood and followed Harry down the hall. When they stepped inside, Harry closed the door and motioned for Malcolm to sit.

Harry took a breath. "I had planned to have this conversation with you under very different circumstances, and not quite so quickly, but we'll have to make do with the time we have." Malcolm's face was passive as Harry reached around and pulled the memory stick from his computer and handed it to him.

"There's a letter on here, to Ruth. Before I discovered the real nature of Tiresias, my plan was to leave today, to go to her, and this letter was to let her know I was coming."

Malcolm nodded slightly, and simply said, "Ah."

With a cheerless half-smile, Harry said, "Now, instead of going, as I'd hoped, to Ruth, I seem to be walking into the lion's den. Should I not come out of it, I want you to make sure she sees this. I also have a bag packed at home. In it are three very important things, a necklace, a ring, and my diary. Please be sure she gets those as well, will you?"

Frowning, Malcolm said, "Harry …." He stopped, and then said, resigned, "Yes. I will."

Harry held a pencil none-too-gently in his hands. In fact, Malcolm thought he might snap it in two any second. Finally, he put it down and looked up at Malcolm. It was clear that he was working very hard to stay composed. "I want her to know that not one day has gone by that I haven't thought of her. And that I have always … always …" Harry got hold of himself, and finished the sentence, "Loved her."

Malcolm could think of nothing appropriate to say, and beyond that, he was quite overcome himself. He simply nodded, and stood. He wanted to say what he had said once before to Harry, _love will find out the way_. But the truth was, where Harry and Ruth were concerned, Malcolm was sadly beginning to have his doubts.

Harry suddenly remembered his worry for Scarlet yesterday. "And please make sure the girls are cared for. They're shut up in the house today so that I could get them quickly when I was done here." He looked up as Malcolm paused at the doorway. "Tell Ruth, in case she'd like to ... have them with her."

Malcolm nodded, and then narrowed his eyes slightly. "I will. But you're coming back, Harry." He tried to smile, and a slight twinkle came into his eye. "They won't want you any more than we do."

Harry smiled too. He could always count on Malcolm not to get maudlin. "You're probably right. Thank you, Malcolm." He nodded. "Please make contact with Sarkiisian. I need to get there as soon as possible."

Five minutes later, Malcolm was back in Harry's doorway. "I've contacted the Russians using the emergency handshake. I've got a car waiting for you." Malcolm turned away for a moment, but then looked at his friend. "Harry, you're walking directly into the arms of people who want you dead."

Harry kept his tone light. "Then I'll try my best to be especially charming."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "My God, then we're in trouble." Harry gave a small chuckle, as Malcolm said, softly, "Come back."

Harry knew what Malcolm was saying. _Come_ _back because you're my friend_, but also, _Don't make me give this news to Ruth_. Harry said gently, "Malcolm, I know I can rely on you. Some things change, that never will."

"Good luck," Malcolm said, almost in a whisper. Harry put his hand out, and Malcolm shook it, wondering if it would be the last time.

* * *

Connie had to sit down. She was feeling far too advanced in years for all this running about. Sarkiisian's people were not far behind them in the tunnel, but she wasn't sure she cared anymore. She could hardly breathe.

Ros turned to Lucas. "What time is it?"

"Half past." Lucas handed a bottle of juice to Connie from his rucksack.

Connie bent over, catching her breath. "Ah, you're not going to make it. Your best chance of survival might be…"

Ros was already furious with Connie. She stood over her and nearly spat the words out, "Might be what?"

"To go deeper."

"You'd do that, would you? Burrow down here like a rat?" Ros didn't even bother to hide her contempt.

Connie laughed, sounding slightly mad. "Like a mole!"

Ros bent over, her face near Connie's. "Yeah, and wait for Central London to be annihilated?"

Now Connie had enough breath to fight back. "Do you think I want this to happen? A nuclear weapon in London? I am what I am, but I've done more for this country than you'll ever know."

Lucas spoke, finally, and asked Connie, "You ever hear of Bridget Driscoll?"

Connie shook her head. "Should I have?"

Lucas kept his voice even, but his anger was just under the surface. "First person ever to be run over and killed by a car. She was a daughter, a wife, a mother. But all that's faded away now. All Bridget Driscoll is, is a single moment." Lucas turned to her. "Whatever you've done for this country, Connie, is gone. What's lost can never be found."

* * *

_Another bloody black hood_, Harry thought. Was it only two nights ago that he'd sat in the back of the CO-19 van in one of these? Except that this one smelled a far sight better, and at least today, his hands weren't tied. Not to mention that the ride was exceedingly more comfortable.

The car lurched to a stop, and he was pulled to a standing position. With a set of strong arms on each side, Harry was walked across what seemed to be an endless tiled floor. They stopped, and the hood was wrenched suddenly from his head. His eyes were still adjusting, but he looked up to see Viktor Sarkiisian, looking just as he did in his photos -- like he badly needed a haircut.

Minutes later, Harry stood next to Sarkiisian, looking out over the grey expanse of water. He'd had time to think of what he was going to say, and he knew he had very little time to do it. He spoke softly, although he wasn't able to keep the urgency from his voice. "Do you realise your kill-squad is trying to hit my officers before they can prevent a nuclear weapon from being detonated in London?"

Viktor narrowed his eyes at him. He was trying to determine if Harry Pearce was telling the truth, or was insane. He had to admit that it was not unreasonable to assume that Moscow had kept him in the dark about something like this. It was what they did regularly.

Harry continued, "In an hour's time, tens of thousands of people will be dead. If your officers succeed in killing mine, you will have succeeded in nothing except killing yourself and your family." Viktor was listening intently, but as he was looking at Harry, something else had suddenly come to his mind. He was remembering his goodbye at home this morning, kissing Alina whilst his two beautiful girls sat at the breakfast table. _A nuclear weapon. London. Tens of thousands of people dead_.

"Your country, your own country is about to kill you, Viktor, and I'm here alone to tell you that. If I'm lying ... Well, keep me, ship me to Russia. If the best you can hope for from this operation is Connie James, I'm a much bigger prize. The FSB can do with me whatever it is it does with people like me."

Viktor looked down, thinking. He was wondering why a man of Harry Pearce's stature and position would be willing to walk unarmed into the FSB's London Headquarters and offer himself up as a sacrifice. The only sense he could make of it was that Pearce was telling the truth.

Harry's voice rose, and he moved closer. "Viktor, look at me! We're short of time. If I'm lying?" Harry exhaled, "What's the worst that can happen? You can make a gift of me to your superiors, a senior British intelligence officer." Harry's voice went ominously low. "If I'm not lying, your children have less than an hour to live."

Viktor tried to concentrate on his duty, but he couldn't get the picture of his family out of his mind. Now Harry wasn't talking to the Station Head of FSB London Headquarters, he was talking to Viktor Sarkiisian, husband, and father.

But Viktor knew that If he believed Harry, he would have to betray Moscow and the FSB. He would need to stand in the way of this bomb being detonated. If Harry was correct and it was a nuclear weapon, it had to be an enormous operation, a decision made far above his level. If Viktor kept this bomb from detonating, he and his men would be punished, and the punishment for that sort of treason would be death. But in the end, Viktor knew that even that would be better than knowing he had stood by as his lovely Alina and his extraordinary girls died.

Finally it was the husband and father who decided. Viktor said, "OK. OK. I believe you, Harry." _Now_, _I will see how committed he is to this_. "They've gone underground. The old tube tunnels. Communication is impossible, so I need to know their destination. Where are they headed?"

Harry paused, unsure of himself for the first time since he'd started talking. He was standing opposite the London Station Head for the FSB, preparing to reveal the location of his officers to the people who were attempting to kill them. It was an absurd situation, one he could never have imagined.

Sarkiisian frowned. "Harry, come on. You came to me for help, so accept it. What is their destination?"

There was no more time to wonder if this was the right thing to do. Harry said quickly, "Get me a map."

As they walked toward the large map of London that was laid out on the table, Viktor allowed himself a glance toward his own desk. He could see that the file was still there, with the information about the man who was offering such a generous sum for the delivery of Harry Pearce.

Viktor had a very different reaction to that information now. If this did turn out to be a nuclear weapon, and if Victor did keep it from detonating, he and his people would need a way to escape. And an escape for all of them and their families would require money.

Viktor didn't dislike Harry Pearce, he knew he was just a man doing his job. But Harry Pearce was Viktor's ticket to freedom, and if he had to, he was going to use him.

* * *

It was 2:45, and Jo needed to follow the order that Harry had given her for this specific time. She called the Home Secretary and told him it was time to evacuate the Prime Minister, Parliament and the Royal Family. They would survive, but Jo and Malcolm would sit and wait, either until Harry called with the all clear, or until everything disappeared in a blinding flash of light.

Jo hung up the phone and turned to Malcolm. "Anyone you need to call?"

Malcolm's face was unreadable, but his voice held a tinge of melancholy. "Well. Mum will be watching _A Place In The Sun_ and waiting for _Countdown_. She loves _Countdown_." He sighed lightly. "Why spoil it, eh?"

Malcolm stared at the computer screen. In the spirit of rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, he was clearing out his email on the server, tidying things up a bit. Suddenly, he realized that he hadn't re-enabled the Martin Wingate account since yesterday, when Dolby was on the Grid.

_And there it was. A message. From Ruth_. Malcolm quickly opened and read it. He looked at the clock in the lower right hand corner of his screen. 2:48. He decided that if he managed to see a number past 2:59, he would do something about this, but as it was, he thought there was a possibility it was a moot point.

* * *

Not only did the FSB back off, they assisted. Walter Crane was correct, he was going to die on this day, but not in the way he imagined. Not in a sudden flash of light, but with a bullet to the brain. A bullet from his own beloved Russia, from the FSB itself.

The briefcase containing the nuclear device was taken underground to Connie, along with a working light, a tool kit and a bottle of gin.

When the case was brought to her, she opened it and looked at the timer. Two minutes and seventeen seconds. She chose the wire to cut, which immediately stopped the clock. Unfortunately, with a click, another timer started.

Lucas asked, "Connie?"

Connie sighed and turned to him. "This isn't an improvised explosive device cooked up by some halfwit undergraduate. There are fail-safes and back-ups. By cutting that wire, I've initiated a secondary countdown."

She began dismantling the bomb as she spoke. "A conventional explosive will go off in less than two minutes. If I haven't removed the uranium, it will cause a chain reaction and a nuclear explosion. I need to remove the shell from the central housing and separate the two isotopes. When I do that, the bomb cannot reach critical mass and will no longer be nuclear."

Connie turned to Ros and Lucas. "It will, however, go up in my face. The bomb kills whoever disarms it, so go, please. Both of you."

Lucas suddenly found it hard to leave her. "No."

Connie gave him a wistful smile. "What you've lost can sometimes be found, Lucas." She turned back to the case and continued to work. "I remove the uranium, it's just a bomb. I'm not scared of bombs."

Lucas nodded and stood to go. Ros turned to Connie, and acknowledged, finally, the sacrifice she was making, by simply saying her name.

Connie had one more thing to say. "Oh, Lucas!" He turned and stepped back toward her. "At 3:00 a.m., when you can't sleep and the nightmares come, who do you blame for what happened to you? Eight years in a Russian Hell? Who do you blame?"

Lucas didn't see any reason not to tell the truth. "I blame Harry."

Connie removed the uranium from the housing. "Then it's time to let it go. It wasn't Harry's fault."

This was the question that Lucas had agonized over for nine years now. He wasn't moving until he got his answer. "Who was it, Connie? Who sold me out? Just say it!"

As the timer counted down, Connie said, "It was me, always me."

Ros and Lucas ran, and managed to move behind a cement column just as the blast ripped through the tunnel, taking Connie James with it.

* * *

The last time Harry had seen his watch, it was 3:17. Sarkiisian had gotten word that the bomb had gone off underground, and clearly it hadn't been nuclear. Either the Broken Arrow Unit had arrived on time, or Connie had found a way to remove the uranium. In truth, he thought she was the only one who could have. If that had been the case, there would have been some redemption for her, then.

3:17. That was just before the gaffer tape, and then the body bag. What had he said? _Keep me, ship me to Russia. I'm a much bigger prize. The FSB can do with me whatever it does with people like me. _After they'd zipped the body bag, he'd been lifted and roughly dropped into what he assumed was the boot of a car. Right now, in the dark, breathing in the overpowering plastic smell of the bag that enclosed him, Harry was feeling some regret for the bravado that shaped those words. But he was, after all, alive. And so were the people of Central London.

Harry groaned, and thought the piece of metal that was digging into his side felt something like a tyre iron. And the road they were on could use some work. His hands were behind his back, tied, as were his feet. He'd had to quell his rising panic once he realised that hyperventilating into gaffer tape was not conducive to the process of breathing.

Harry didn't share the knowledge of his claustrophobia with anyone, in large part because talking about it didn't tend to make it any better. And also, that sort of Achilles heel was never the type of thing you'd like to get out in his line of work. But it was quite acute in a situation like this: bound, gagged, zipped inside a bag, inside the boot of a car. Harry tried to calm himself again with the music, and with thoughts of Ruth.

_So close_. He'd been on his way to her, and when he'd thought about it, he'd almost been able to feel her in his arms. And Harry wondered now, bumping along in the back of this car, if he'd simply gone to her and left dealing with Tiresias to others, would someone have stepped in and done it? He'd always told Ruth that as soon as he felt someone else could do a better job, he would step aside. But the conundrum was, how would he know if someone else could do it _unless_ he stepped aside?

In the dark, it was so easy to conjure Charles Grady's face. _You're doing it again, Harry._ _Pushing the people you love away, in the name of the job. You think you're the only one who can save Britain? Delusions of grandeur, Harry. That's all they are._... Harry tried to hear the music, but it wouldn't come. And now, neither would Ruth.

Another chance, and he'd missed it. He wondered if it was his last chance. Most of all, Harry wondered if he would ever see his Ruth again.

* * *

_**This is the end of Part Three.**_

_**Now on to Part Four...and Harry and Ruth together again...**_

_**Thank you for continuing to read!**_


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